Chapter Sixteen: Drown Your Sorrows

It was early afternoon when Tristan woke up – he could tell from the sun's position outside the window. The weather was cooling down as the season dragged on into late autumn. However, the world didn't seem to want to let go of the summer heat; there was still the dry tinge in the air that reminded him of the scorching summer days.

Tristan stretched, hardly believing that he had slept so long. He went to his own room and changed into clean clothes – a black undershirt and leather tunic – then went on the hunt for food. In the square outside, Arthur's greyhounds chased each other in circles. Cabal, the larger of the two hounds, leapt up at Tristan and tried to lick his face. Tristan kicked it aside; he cared nothing for dogs.

Fabius was busy in the kitchens, but he had left out food, anticipating Tristan's early-morning hunt for nourishment. The bread was slightly hard, having been left in the open air for a few hours, but the apples were fine and tasted sweet. He visited Maura in the stables and was surprised to see there a stallion that he did not recognise. It was pale grey with dappled flanks that shone with the tell-tale signs of a recent brush. The horse was male, and tall, with a long mane and tail. He was clearly no war horse, but neither was he a petted docile creature straight from a lady's stable. As Tristan fetched Maura some milk oats and gave her a quick brush down, he wondered where the horse could have come from.

'Hello, Tristan,' came a soft voice from behind him. He turned to find Cavan smiling at him, wearing a pale linen shirt and a deep red tunic over it. Her ebony hair was coiled tightly at the back of her head, secured with a three-inch-long cloak pin that she had thieved from Dagonet's chest; however, strands had come loose and they hung down beside her face, framing her angular chin and cheekbones. 'I was thinking of going for a ride,' she continued, crossing to the dappled grey and winding her fingers in his mane.

'He is yours?' Tristan asked. He suddenly remembered the day that his sister had arrived in the town, and he had followed her – she had been riding that very horse.

'Falada,' Cavan said. 'His name is Falada.' She saddled her horse and bridled him, then led him out of the stables, followed by Tristan, who had wordlessly prepared Maura for a ride and climbed into her saddle already. Lancelot was outside, leaning against the wall with Gawain and Dagonet. They all had cups of wine in their hands, but none of them seemed to be drinking. Over the street, Vanora's tavern was already bustling with soldiers, men folk and children – mainly Bors' offspring. As Cavan came out of the stable, Gawain saw her and pushed himself into a standing position.

'You're riding out?' he asked. Lancelot raised his eyebrows at the dagger in Cavan's belt, and they moved even higher as his eyes turned to the tall horse beside her – whose head reached above hers.

'Are you sure you can get on that thing?' Lancelot mocked her, his lilting voice arrogant. Ignoring him, Cavan put one foot in the stirrup and slid onto Falada's back smoothly.

'Oh, it's not that hard. I'm sure that, with practise, you'll be able to do it yourself one day too.' As Gawain and Dagonet roared with laughter at the look on Lancelot's face, Cavan dug in her heels and her horse launched himself forwards. Finding her balance with him, she pushed Falada onwards, past Vanora's and out of the fort.

After about thirty minutes of galloping through the grass at parallel with the wall, Cavan slowed Falada down to a gentle walk. Tristan drew level with her and slowed too. His cheeks were slightly pink and there was sweat on his forehead. They travelled together for a while, in a comfortable silence, broken suddenly by Tristan.

'I do not know what to say.'

'You don't need to say anything, Tristan.' She smiled at him. 'Silence comes, for people like us, as naturally as - showing off does for people like Lancelot. It's nothing to be ashamed of,' she continued.

'I just feel that we should be catching up the years we have missed,' Tristan said awkwardly.

'Brother, there is nothing about my past that you would enjoy hearing about,' Cavan laughed. However, the look in her sea-green eyes showed that she was physically afraid of dredging up those memories.

'I understand, but I still feel –' he started, but Cavan cut him off.

'Tristan, can we not just start anew from this point?' she asked, her voice a little offhand.

'Of course.' They rode the rest of their journey in a pleasant, comfortable silence, taking a wide circle through the forest and then back round to the fort. As they drew closer to the wall, Tristan caught a faint hint of burning in the air. He gazed around, wondering what it was that could cause the bitter odour. On the horizon, a thick column of black smoke rose into the air, thin tendrils catching in the wind. Reigning in Maura, he squinted at the smoke, trying to discern the origin of the burning. Cavan had noticed that he had stopped; she turned Falada and then caught sight of what her brother was looking at.

'Shall I come?' she asked, instinctively knowing that Tristan was going to go and try to find whatever it was that was burning. Tristan shook his head, and motioned towards the fort.

'Go back,' he said quietly. Maura, sensing her rider's discomfort, shuffled anxiously. Tristan dug in his heels. Cavan watched the two of them canter away, and a strange fear filled her stomach. What was the source of the fire? And if Tristan went alone, would he come back?

'Don't worry about it,' Gawain said, leaning against on of the supporting beams in the stable. 'Tristan is the best of us, in that, if he knows that a situation is too much for him, he will pull himself out.'

'I am still worried for him,' she replied as she brushed Falada's flanks. Gawain frowned.

'Why do you care so much?' he asked, suddenly angry. 'Tristan almost killed you! Or have you forgotten that already?' Cavan watched, mouth open, as he stormed from the stables.

'And I have forgiven him!' she shouted after him. Falada snorted and flipped his mane, agitated.

'He is right,' an accented voice said behind her. Lancelot's curly brown hair fell over his eyes as he stepped forwards. He continued, 'Tristan was so close to killing you.'

'I know!' Cavan spat. 'I was there, I remember!' Lancelot gazed at her, confused.

'So why do you care for him now, more than ever?' he asked.

'Things… change,' Cavan mumbled, turning back to Falada. She pulled the cloak pin out of her hair and let it tumble down her back, then rested her head on Falada's neck.

'What has happened between you to make you feel this way?' Lancelot was incredulous. 'Surely he does not deserve your forgiveness!'

'I know he does not deserve my forgiveness. But he has it, all the same.'

'I do not understand, but I will accept what you say. As long as you rid yourself of this melancholy and come to Vanora's with me,' Lancelot offered in a vague attempt to cheer her up. Almost immediately, Cavan smiled at him and lay down the brush she had been using. She went to tie her hair up again, but Lancelot reached out and stopped her. 'It looks lovely down,' he said.

They walked together, out of the stables and towards Vanora's, which was already heaving. The evening was fast approaching and the occupants of the town and fort had laid down their weapons and tools for the day, turning instead to Vanora's taproom and the company to be found there.

Lancelot led Cavan to a table in the square outside the tavern. Around it sat Galahad, Gawain and Bors. Dagonet was seated with a woman across the square. There were two large pitchers in the centre of the table, with several clay cups in various stages of emptiness scattered over the surface of the table. The knights were all laughing at a Roman soldier a few tables away who was flirting hopelessly with one of Vanora's girls.

Lancelot slipped into a seat and invited Cavan to sit beside him. She did, and soon Bors had poured her a cup of wine from one of the pitchers. Lancelot looked over at the Roman soldier they were mocking and frowned.

'That's Hani, isn't it?' he asked, grinning. The girl in question had thick, reddish brown hair, braids hidden in the tumbling mass. Her eyes were pale blue and she had full, rounded lips. She wore a dark blue front-tying bodice over a paler long-sleeved dress. She must have been only sixteen or seventeen. As they watched, the soldier pulled her down to sit on his lap and tried to kiss her. She lifted up the pitcher of ale she had been holding and brought it crashing down onto his head. The men around her and almost everyone else in the square roared with laughter at the sight of the soldier so humiliated. The girl stood up and turned her back on him, picked up another pitcher and carried on with her work as though nothing had happened.

'I wouldn't, if I were you,' said Galahad to Lancelot. 'That's the third time she's done that tonight.' Lancelot poured himself a drink, staring thoughtfully at the girl named Hani.

Across the square, Dagonet and the woman he was seated with were involved in a deep conversation. The sight of the large knight so animated caused a smile to come to Cavan's lips.

'Who is that?' she asked of Galahad.

'Helsin,' he replied. 'The fort's healer.' Cavan thought that, if the fort had a healer, why had she not been treated by them? When she put the question to Galahad, though, he seemed hesitant to answer.

'Helsin is one of the only people who knows about what happened the night you came here,' he said quietly.

'She refused to treat you when she found out,' Gawain said. 'It was understandable – she and Gareth were very close.'

Cavan looked down into her cup. She agreed with Gawain – it was understandable that woman would hate her. However, seeing Dagonet with Helsin had revealed another emotion to her that she had had almost no experience with: jealousy.

She turned back to Gawain, removing Dagonet and Helsin from her sight, and downed her cup in one. Bors saw her knock it back and grinned, refilling her cup. She thanked him.

'Drown our sorrows?' he offered. Cavan nodded, smiling, and they both gulped down their wine. She wanted to drink until she couldn't remember anything, and then drink some more.

Cavan woke up early the next morning to a pounding head. She sat up, groaning, and realised she had fallen asleep on Gawain. He was still snoring, as well as Bors – who lay on the floor – and Galahad, who was asleep on the table, surrounded by empty pitchers and cups.

She staggered to the water trench and dipped her face in, attempting to shock herself back into consciousness. It was freezing. Filling a pitcher, Cavan gulped down the icy liquid. It helped to dispel some of her splitting headache. She moaned and sat down on the floor. The world was spinning.

'Are you alright?' someone asked extremely loudly. Cavan cradled her throbbing head, trying to ignore the loud person who was asking her stupid questions. Suddenly an arm slid around her waist and she was being helped up. 'Let's get you up,' said the loud voice. Her stomach churned and the world seemed to fall sideways. 'Sit down just here; I'll bring you a bucket and some food.'

Cavan fell into a chair and laid her head on the table. She badly needed to be sick. The voice's promise of food had only worsened the over-powering need to vomit her stomach out. She closed her eyes and only opened them once the voice was back and forcing her to eat something that smelled like wine and salt.

'Eat it, and then you can be sick, and then you'll feel better, I promise,' the voice coaxed her. Willingly, Cavan opened her mouth and swallowed the salty food obediently. The voice put more in her mouth and she swallowed again. There was a rushing in her head and she felt hot and then she was violently sick into the bucket by her feet.

'Feel better?' the voice asked. Cavan shook her head, and vomited again. She could feel someone holding her hair. Coughing, she sat up and rubbed her eyes. The world blurred and then sharpened. The owner of the voice looked down on her with kind, blue eyes: a girl of about sixteen, with dark reddish-brown hair and full lips. Cavan stared at her, frowning, trying to remember where she had seen the girl before.

'Are you alright?' the girl asked.

'Yes, actually,' she replied, surprised. She did feel better – her headache had abated slightly and her stomach was no longer churning. 'I'm sorry, but who are you?'

'My name is Hani. I work with Vanora.'

'Of course – you were here last night. You hit a soldier with a jug,' Cavan giggled. Hani laughed.

'They're all pigs, those soldiers. Think every girl should just lie down and let them have their way – and enjoy it, mind!' Hani said, her voice sharp. Then she turned back to Cavan. 'Now you're feeling better, would you like some proper breakfast?'

Cavan was digging into a bowl of honeyed porridge when Arthur came into the square, wearing a shirt and leather pants, his sword in his hand. His hair was wet and his tanned skin shiny. The greyhounds were at his heels, yapping.

'Cavan,' Arthur said hurriedly. 'Have you seen Gawain or Galahad?'

She replied by pointing to the table around which the knights still snored. Arthur rolled his eyes. 'What perfect timing.'

'Is something wrong?' Cavan asked, a little worried.

'There has been word from Tristan. Dagonet has already left, with Lancelot and Helsin.'

'What has happened?'

'A village – about five miles away – attacked by Woads. There are many dead – only a few are left alive. That is all Tristan told us,' he explained. 'Will you come?'