"Peace of mind comes when your life is in harmony, with true principles and values and in no other way."
Peace of Mind
ISOLDE…
The spring and summer passed swiftly, our new duties keeping us very busy. Autumn came upon us with the familiar comfort of an old friend. We'd been recognized by the Empire as full knights in the early summer – 22 Junius – and with that distinction came our pay and our first imperial mission, not counting those requested or required by Arthur or the British-Roman powers.
Quin told us that the woads usually became particularly active in the first years of service, but so far they'd been suspiciously silent.
We rode on patrols and escorted Roman personages without a wrinkle of trouble. It was only on the imperial missions that came about once a month that the blue people crawled out of whatever holes they lived in and gave us hell. Arthur suspected they watched the fort, and attacked only when they saw a messenger bearing the Emperor's flag. The thought made us uneasy.
It puzzled and irritated Arthur to no end, and disconcerted us, but there was nothing to be done, and no reason to do it. Anything that kept us alive and well a little longer was cause for thanksgiving.
At least, we felt that way until Abeacus and Dynadin took a message to a neighboring fort and were ruthlessly cut down. Their horses followed the path and took their arrow-riddled bodies to the fort they'd been heading for, delivering the message with a bitter gift.
We knew nothing of their fate until we returned from a minor mission to find six riders waiting for us, with their pitiful burdens slung carefully across their saddlebows, dressed in linen wrappings. It took three days to sober Arthur up after we buried them.
The sudden violence of the act planted the first seeds of hatred in our most secret of souls – not against the real culprits, the Romans, but against the easy targets the woads presented. We began to build walls of stone around our hearts, protecting us from the guilt we might otherwise have felt for killing men who wanted only their country and their freedom… just as we did.
I found myself consoling the others after a battle with an independent group of woad women. Isdernus, Abeacus' best friend, had coldly and ruthlessly lopped off the head of the woman who led them and speared the horrid, gory thing on a pike as a warning to other woads.
He cut out the eyes and tongue and buried them, and scalped her as was the old custom. Arthur had watched him with sickened eyes, unable to do anything but watch the butchery. I was left to gather the younger ones and steer the older group towards their horses.
It was a restrained assembly of knights who came through the gates that day. Isdernus rode alone.
The incident had made me realize that fighting women would present a problem for them. Many of the men had gained serious injuries in that battle because they'd worried too much about the gender of their opponent, and not enough about the weapons in her hands.
That was when I stopped sparring with the majority of the other knights, sticking to Roman soldiers or inanimate objects that couldn't fight back to keep my skills sharp. I knew the men had pictured my face, among others, in place of that of the woad women as they died, and I was certain that this was encouraged by sparring against them, and so I didn't. Either way, they didn't protest.
My sword dances were my main form of training now, and these I did away from the others, or in the early mornings. Just now I was preparing to begin my dance as the sun reached long, golden fingers over the eastern mountains, lighting the crimson foliage that had yet to fall from the limbs of trees.
I'd acquired a new sword, much like my old one, but longer and slimmer and curved just slightly like the swords from the east. It was a fine backsword with an encapsulated tang, though the single edge was twice as sharp as my older, double-edged weapon. It had used up virtually all of my pay so far, but I didn't particularly mind. A good weapon was worth far more than gold, if it saved my life.
This new weapon I used with my right hand, slinging it over my right shoulder while my second sword, my old blade, was now settled over my left, with my quiver usually hanging from my belt. I was still getting used to the new arrangement, which seemed a little awkward, but I couldn't think of another way to wear all of my weapons at once, so I made do.
Now I placed Kiji, as I'd decided to call my new friend – meaning protector – atop my old sword and positioned my feet in the proper squares. My dances had gotten longer, more vigorous, and much more elaborate with constant practice and development.
I placed my kontos to the right, perpendicular to Kiji. Closing my eyes and grounding myself was as easy and natural as breathing by now, and my feet began to tap out the familiar steps almost without conscious direction.
I opened my eyes again to watch my shorter blades flash as I rolled my wrists. I jumped – felt that strange pull as my will battled with gravity and inevitably lost – and landed in a half-crouch, my akinakes barely scraping the dirt of the sparring ring before it was twirling again, never pausing, always confident in its deadly motion.
This dance didn't return to its initial slow pace like the old one had, and it came to a sudden halt with my kontos quivering in the ground in front of me, one knife directed at the heart of my invisible opponent, and my akinakes drawn back in a reverse grip for the killing blow.
A giggle made me freeze as I bent to retrieve my armaments. My eyes darted to the second floor of one of the few houses that overlooked the training grounds, where three girls sat.
They had perhaps a year or two less than I – one looked to be even younger. They giggled some more, and I yanked my kontos out of the earth and stalked over to the foot of the wooden stairs.
"What do you want?" I demanded snappishly. I didn't like being laughed at, especially by chits who wouldn't know haft from hilt if it bit them in the arse.
"Do the other knights do that?" The second girl asked, pointing to my crossed swords. She giggled, as if at a joke, and the youngest looked uncertain, but her jaw firmed in annoyance.
I tightened my grip on my kontos. I wouldn't allow these three ignorant girls to anger me. I spun on my heel and would have left, but was stopped when the youngest piped up.
"We want to learn." I turned back to them, disbelief writ across my face, and stood in front of the bold girl.
"I could spear you where you stand with this." I said quietly to her, but there was a strange note in my tone, almost wondering.
I pulled back the folds of my tunic to reveal a row of wicked, toothy knives. "And these…" I slid my boot knife out just enough to show a few inches of mirror-bright steel. "And this…"
I stopped. There was no need to go showing her all of my secrets, like the miniscule blade about the size of my pinkie hanging between my breasts, or the sheaths around my thighs.
The others were convinced I slept with my weapons – largely untrue – and called me paranoid, which I wasn't – just careful. I was the only woman warrior, and a Sarmatian at that, in a fort chock-full of men, Roman and otherwise, and that was reason enough.
There was especially no reason to give up the six sharpened pins in my hair that doubled as lock picks – Itaz appeared to have a rather shady nature, the sneaky sod, and I bullied him into teaching me how to use the picks in exchange for me keeping my mouth shut about catching him coming out of the rooms of a Roman footsoldier he disliked.
Being the keen businesswoman that I was, I also persuaded him to ply his skills whenever the imperial messengers appeared. There was no need to be careless, and none of us trusted the Romans or their precious God.
I fixed my attention back on the hopeful faces of the three girls – Khors bless, they were serious. I cocked my head to one side and considered them. The oldest was quiet, firm, and a little old for learning weaponry – they all were. The younger was fiery, determined, and obviously tired of being treated as the useless baby.
The middle girl I wasn't sure of. Her eyes shone with excitement at the idea, and that was the whole problem. She saw only the glory, I was sure, and the beauty of the dance, and no doubt the handsome, chivalrous men she might meet by learning from me.
Was I actually considering this? I believe I was.
"If I teach you – and I'm not saying I will – you shall have to agree to do everything that I say. Learning the art of weapons involves pain, and discomfort, and a strength of mind that you probably haven't had the chance to develop, living here in the cozy village as you are instead of out on the open plains of my homeland." Let them think on that for awhile.
"You'll have to wear men's clothes, like me, for most of the day – and we will be practicing every day. If I waste my time training an undedicated brat, I will not be happy." My suspicions of materiality and feminism in the second girl were confirmed when she looked dismayed – or perhaps just a little apprehensive – at the mention of men's clothing. But then, well did I know the mental comfort of knowing one's place and the rules that guided it. Fear was natural when it came to stepping out of old boundaries and into a world without them.
"I have one final rule. You'll have to get permission from your parents. I don't care if they say no, or are shocked by my habits or my heritage; I will not go sneaking around, teaching you sword-craft behind the backs of a bunch of Romans. I've already got enough problems with all the woads of Britain trying to kill me to have all the Romans after me, too."
The older girl, apparently the leader of the group, said, "Our parents aren't Roman, they're Britons. Well, except Neve's father, who's a soldier with the Wolves, but he's drunk half the time, and everyone knows that her mother makes the decisions where their children are concerned." Well, that made me feel a lot better about teaching them.
I harrumphed. "All right. Come over here, I'll show you the easy steps first so you can practice on your own." I was extremely disconcerted to find them all hugging me wildly.
My morning routine thoroughly disrupted, I maneuvered them through the easiest steps, and showed them stretches and exercises I knew, until the sun had risen above the rooftops and the rest of the town began to stir. Then I sent them off to clean up.
Before they left, I said, "I have patrol today, so we'll see about trousers and tunics for you afterwards. Boots, too. Meet me in the stables at two bells after supper, if your parents agree."
They scampered off, laughing and chattering gaily about the lesson. I smiled after them, remembering my own training at home.
I stopped my contemplating on that one. That line of thought would only lead to pain. This was my home now.
I saw young Nineve twirl about in the pivot I'd taught them, and my smile grew. Careful, girl, I cautioned myself. This might yet turn into a flop. You are not here to have fun.
But this didn't stop me from whistling merrily as I gathered my weapons and headed back to my room. Flop or not, I couldn't wait for evening to come.
But by the time the appointed hour rolled around, I wasn't entirely sure I hadn't made a big mistake. I'd gathered some spare clothing and had dropped it in the hay. I myself was seeking refuge in Simargl's mane, breathing in his sweaty, horsy scent. He rolled an eye at me and whickered softly.
"You're my best friend, sometimes." I murmured into the arch of his neck, and smiled as he shook his head. Animals were so simple to talk to, especially intelligent animals, which seemed to listen without judging, like my beautiful, strong, perpetually testy horse.
I turned his head and placed a kiss on his nose. I heard a small commotion at the stable doors. Giving Simargl one last pat, I stepped out and swung the door shut.
The sight that met my eyes was entirely unexpected, and I nearly fled back to the safe haven of Simargl's stall.
"Oh no. Oh no, no, no, no, no. Not a chance in hell. No. Absolutely not." The eight girls who had just entered my domain wore pleading expressions that ranged from interested to desperate. Behind them stood a fewyoung women and some intrigued parents.
"Uh-uh. I can't – you're not going to – no." I said, ever my eloquent self.
Brangaine, the older girl from this morning, stepped forward with an amused glint in her eye.
"You. I should have known it would be a mistake to agree to your mad-hatted idea. Were you planning this all along? Or did you just decide to drive me barmy at the spur of the moment, on a whim?"
She smiled complacently, not ruffled at all. I hated people like that, I decided. "They just want to learn to defend themselves. You wouldn't deny them that, would you? The woads are becoming increasingly bold, and innocent Britons are being killed in their own villages."
"If they should come while you knights are away, with only the Romans to protect us, and them scant protection, too… You know we'd all be killed, or taken captive. Surely you couldn't condemn them to that fate."
Perhaps it was because she had snubbed the Romans. Perhaps it was the sincerity in her tone, or the flash of fear I saw in their eyes when she spoke of the woad attacks. But whatever it was made me turn and stare at the pile of clothing on the loose hay. I hated reasonable people.
"The gods cursed me when they gave me a conscience," I muttered irritably. "I always knew it would get me into trouble someday, but this beats all…"
I turned back to the group assembled there. Brangaine's face was split by a triumphant grin, and I had no doubt that she'd heard my comment and drawn the right conclusion.
"It won't be fun," I warned. "It most certainly won't resemble anything close to easy." Heads nodded determinedly.
"We will do it. We want to learn." She repeated the phrase Nineve had used that morning. "And if the woads come, damn if I'm going down without a fight."
That clinched it for me. I wasn't going to let those damn savages have a taste of these Britons, gods witness.
I went to her and shook her hand to seal our bargain, and then turned and placed the same hand on her shoulder. Together we contemplated the garments that lay in the middle of the stable floor.
"We're going to need a lot more clothes." I said, and all laughed – was that some relief I heard? It was. There was something else, too, something that had been strangely absent until now, which made my heart float glowing to rest somewhere in the rafters high above.
Hope.
"1! 2! 4! Keep your elbow up on that block, Toby! 6! 3! 2! 5!" They followed the position numbers fairly smoothly, despite the fact that all they held were rough wooden poles.
I had decided that they were going to follow the Sarmatian custom and make their practice swords before they were allowed to so much as touch a real one, and they weren't going to make the blades until they could work the bellows.
But little did they know they weren't going to do any of these things for quite awhile. Tomorrow they would be put to chopping wood for the winter, and that would be all they did for several weeks.
The ax haft would form calluses in much the same places as a sword hilt would, and the extra weight, coupled with strange and awkward angles, would build muscle where I wanted muscle built. Besides, we needed wood, and so all worked out perfectly.
This past week had been little more than drill. They'd all learned the simplest dance, even the few men who had joined our merry band, at my insistence. Anyone older than 20 or so probably wouldn't be able to advance very far at all with the sword dances, but we practiced them daily regardless. Grace and agility were crucial.
I'd never thought of myself as a teacher of any sort, and here I was, directing a horde of eager villagers in the use of several weapons. And not only that – I'd actually found myself drawing up plans for repelling woads from the fort, which I thought was going rather too far, but which Brangaine (who had become something of a second-in-command to me) loved and wouldn't let me discard.
In fact, I felt almost as though I was the one in charge of the fort, and was forming my own army to fight for me. It didn't feel right or any such thing; rather, I just happened to… fall into the role, as it were, simply because they saw me – a foreign warrior, and a woman, no less – as a heroine. Who could be less so, I had no idea, but they seemed to have adopted me regardless.
The knights didn't know a thing about it, which was strange as it was the talk of the town and there were now about thirty grubby townsfolk gathering to practice in their training grounds every morning.
I strongly suspected Arthur was aware of it, however, and I also had the feeling that he was quite amused by the whole thing. Although I knew it must have taken a lot of guilt and worry off his mind, so somehow it didn't seem so bad.
A good many of my troops – in my mind I couldn't rid myself of the feeling that it was, in fact, what they were – were archers and nothing more, but they practiced everything but the actual swordplay alongside everyone else.
I couldn't help but feel more confident in myself now that I had a mission I could be proud of, and not one forced upon me by a rogue empire gone corrupt. I tried not to show it, to keep the others from suspecting something, because for some reason I rather liked keeping my fierce warriors a secret.
Tristan knew, of course. Why the other scout had to be so bright-eyed and bushy-tailed in the morning I'd never know. Damn his curious sleeping habits. Not that I wasn't an early-riser myself (after all, morning was the time we trained together every day) but even I wasn't that aware before Khors had lifted the sun above the horizon.
Of our group, one girl stood out in particular. She was good with a sword – better than good, she was a bloody natural. But strangest of all, once she'd mastered the sword fairly well I moved her onto the basics of archery, and then throwing knives, and she was just as cursed brilliant at both of those, too.
A natural swordswoman was a rare find. Someone with two such skills was even more so, a prodigy, but three? Who ever heard of a girl who exceeded all logical expectations and beat hardened veterans in three areas? And three of the most crucial areas in weapons-craft? It was completely illogical. But damn was she good.
She scared me, though. She had a face the like of which I'd never seen. Her features were ordinary enough – straight dark hair, square jaw, muddy brown eyes, a complexion that seemed determined to stay pale no matter how many long hours she spent in the sun – but her face was completely devoid of expression. She never smiled, never laughed, and only rarely spoke. She was completely emotionless, at least on the outside, and did nothing but eat, sleep, and train that I knew of. Her history could practically be the twin of mine, and that was what scared me. I could so easily have been her.
Ceallach had lost her family – mother, father, three siblings and another on the way – in a woad attack only months before. She had what the others lacked, the mindlessness of complete selfless vengeance, a cold sort of battle-madness.
Nevertheless, I saw myself in her, if only in her willingness to learn every deadly artI could teach her. I pitied her for the loss of a chance at life, and had to actively avoid favoring her. In some ways she was the me of three years before.
And so the months passed, with a comfortable, contented schedule worked out within the training group.
I was strained and exhausted, but for the time being I was content.
It was almost four months after I'd taken on the first group of protégés, and snow now dusted the ground at Badon Hill. I hummed cheerfully to myself as I made my way to the training grounds, sword in hand and with a smaller, rounder shield than the monstrous rectangular things the Roman infantry used. We were going to try something new today.
Shouts caught my attention, and I threw off the shield when I recognized the signs of a fight.
I didn't run; I was furious, and that the villagers could see it was evident as they caught sight of me and quickly cleared the way to the two men locked together in their midst.
When the smaller, stockier man broke away, I knew him as Loc, and the younger man as the tall and lanky Eryk. I stepped between them and brought my elbow up to smash into Loc's nose. He stumbled back and landed ungracefully on his derriere as I knocked Eryk off his feet. I lay my blade at the base of his throat to keep him down.
I leveled my swords at their throats, feeling the shiver run up the cold metal as Eryk swallowed hard to calm his breathing before the point of my weapon could break the skin. Loc panted heavily and tried to stop his eyes fromwatering.
I struggled to keep my voice steady, and not rant wildly as I would've liked to do.
"What is the meaning of this?" I growled. My words positively dripped venom.
No one answered me.
I jerked my head at Eryk and he followed my direction, pushing himself off the ground and standing next to, but not touching, the other man as he too got to his feet.
I looked at each man coldly. "Drop your weapons." They did. Brangaine collected them and stood off to one side.
I sheathed my own blade and stepped forward, disgust writ all across my face.
I kept my eyes on the two men so they could see the absolute disappointment in my expression. They at least had the grace to look shamefaced.
I addressed the crowd first. "Have you nothing better to do than stand around, watching two of your own embarrass and debase themselves? For shame. Go home. There will be no lesson this morning; you may thank your two comrades for that. I have not the patience to deal with you today." They began to disperse.
"Astolat," I barked sharply to the girl who'd obviously been the cause of the disturbance. It was the second oldest girl of the three who first asked me for lessons. "You stay."
When the rest had gone, I turned the full force of my fury on my three victims. "You knew, did you not," I asked Latie, "that these men fancied you?" She nodded ashamedly, tears hanging from her long lashes, but I was in no mood to be sympathetic.
"You knew they both wanted you, and would both go head to head to have you, and yet you didn't make your feelings known?" Again the silent nod. "You decided to let them battle it out, so you wouldn't have to choose and the victor would win your heart?" I tried and failed to keep the disgust out of my next statement.
"Then you aren't fit to be on a battlefield. Fighting takes discipline and quick decision-making, and you've proven you don't have either. It takes trust in your comrades, and their trust in you, and you clearly aren't willing to be conducive to this arrangement." I was rather proud of that last sentence. I'd used a few words from my Latin lessons, which were going fairly well. I always did like languages.
Her two would-be lovers protested on her behalf.
"Be silent," I commanded, and they shut up. "Don't be so certain you won't get the same." I turned back to the girl, who looked stricken, and I almost felt bad for her, but I hardened my heart. A woman who would turn two men against each other had no place in a male-dominated profession. The fact that her two beaus were brothers was even worse, for I had gained a great respect for brotherhood in the two years since our conscription.
"I may allow you to rejoin us one day, if you can prove yourself worthy to be a part of our ranks. But for now, get out of my ring."
She didn't even dispute my claim of ownership over the training grounds, but fled, barely containing her sobs. I briefly regretted being so hard on her, but she had to learn.
"That was cruel," commented Evan from my shoulder. I jumped – I'd been so focused on the three troublemakers that I hadn't heard him sneak up on me.
"Naw," I spoke quietly so only he could hear me, and glanced after her. "If she surprises me and doesn't come back within a few days, she wasn't worth the time and effort to start with, but I sincerely doubt that scenario will come to pass."
"Now, you two," I turned my very best glower on the cowering men, "I ought to put your asses in a sling and throw you to the woads, is what I ought to do. But you're both able fighters, and I know how cursed impulsive men can be – whereas women generally know exactly what they're doing a week before they do it – and so if you convince me you can fight for the right reasons, and not for some petty quarrel over a wench, I will take you back in a few days, once you've had a chance to thoroughly cool off."
They looked quite astounded, and I decided I liked shocking people. It built character.
"But if you don't learn to curb your temper and turn it to your own purposes, rather than disgracing your swords by turning them against each other – you're brothers, by Jázon, and I won't have it – then you will never fight by my side."
They hung their heads – it must have been a strange sight to see two grown men being chewed out by a girl not even out of her teens and almost a foot shorter than them. It didn't tickle me at the time, though.
I felt the beginnings of a headache building near the base of my skull.
"You're dismissed." They left.
"Dux," said the same voice at my ear.
That was what they called me; Dux. They'd given me the title of a Roman commander, but somehow I wasn't offended. It was more like an affectionate nickname born of gratitude and respect than a comparison between me and the soldiers I hated.
I faced the man addressing me with the vestiges of a scowl on my face, but it failed to intimidate him. Evan was like my co-second-in-command, sharing the responsibility Brangaine had taken upon herself. They worked well together, neither commandeering the tasks they undertook nor slacking off. In fact, I wouldn't have been surprised if they ended up as lovers one of these days. I'd seen the way he looked at her.
"Dux," he reminded me of his presence by settling a large, calloused hand on my shoulder.
"What is it, Ev?" I rubbed my temple. The day had started out badly, and I had the feeling it would only get worse. For someone in my line of work, that usually meant someone would be dying today.
"Myrna the egg seller is complaining about Borden's hounds again. Said they attacked her hens and now they won't lay. I don't think she realizes that half her hens are roosters, and wouldn't lay anyway." He smirked.
"Oh, not again…" I moaned as my head throbbed and my self-control wavered. He gave my shoulder a sympathetic squeeze. "So now I'm Problem-Solver along with Girl-Expert, Love Goddess, Horse-Tender, Crazy Vixen, and All-Around Bitch. What's next? Nappy-Changer? Ruler of Infantile and Adult Hygiene? Papay save me." He looked at me strangely, but shrugged it off in his usual bland manner.
"Oh, go on," I sighed wearily, "Bring on the old harridan."
And so Queen Isolde held court in her little kingdom of dirt and sword. And damn if she wasn't going to collect from Arthur after this little treat. Oh, yes, he owed her indeed.
I slumped into my usual place in the center of the hayloft where we spent a good deal of our time. It was nearly an hour before noon; I'd been Problem-Solver for at least three hours, and all I wanted to do was lay down before my headache ate me alive from the inside, out. To that end I closed my eyes and tried to will away the pounding at my temples.
I heard the others come in from their own practice. Someone sat in the chair next to the hay bale that I occupied. I knew I presented a sight, sprawled haphazardly with hay in my hair and still wearing my leathers, but the hell with that.
Gentle hands began to rub my shoulders and I sighed in relief and tipped my head back as the fingers skillfully kneaded the stiffness from my neck.
I opened my eyes to see an upside-down Lancelot smirking down at me. It was a more open smile than those he gave his women, which was never surprising as they lasted a night and I, like an incurable disease or a persistent parasite, lasted a lifetime. It didn't make me any less inclined to wipe it off his face, though.
"What's gotten you so stressed?" he queried. He continued to work wonders with my tight muscles.
I ignored his question, opting for a groan of bliss as a vertebra in my neck popped. Lancelot's expression was quite comical as I tilted my head to one side and then the other, initiating a sequence of loud cracks that released almost as much tension as his massage did. He shuddered in blatant revulsion as the readjustment shivered through the bones under his fingertips.
"Lance, you have the hands of a god. If this is what you have to offer, it's no wonder the women flock to you in droves." I looked at the others. "Magic fingers, i'faith," I said appreciatively, and quite seriously.
Attaces guffawed, and Ru chuckled aloud at my attempt at poetic speaking. I stared over their heads and affected an offended air.
Lancelot threw up his chin and looked around at the others, who made themselves comfortable as we spoke, with a certain superior pride. Not to risk bursting his bubble (naturally our primary concern) we managed to stifle our laughter. Barely.
He glanced down at me slyly and said, "Now why don't you come upto my room and find out what really makes them flock?"
He made the offer as he always did, with a twinkle in his eye and a teasing grin plastered on his face. It was a joke he made regularly and lightly, and I'd never taken him up on it, which made pestering me all the more fun for him. I wondered not for the first time what he'd do if I actually did take him up on it. Probably faint in his chair.
I grinned wickedly. I wasn't having a particularly good day so far, and I figured a little laughter was called for. Besides, I was17 and I'd been good for the most part, at least lately; I was entitled to a little fun.
My smile morphed from wicked to seductive in a moment as I stood up and looked upon him sitting there, balancing his chair on its two hind legs.
"Alright, Lance," I purred in my most sultry tone, "Let's go have a good roll in the hay before lunchtime." Inwardly I winced. Maybe the hay reference wasn't quite appropriate, seeing as we were in a hayloft. I hadn't intended it to sound so public. I hoped it wouldn't ruin the joke.
It seemed I'd misjudged after all. He fell out of his chair.
Once we'd revived Lancelot to a conscious state (with much joshing and throwing of jibes) and righted the chair, which had tumbled over backwards when he lost his balance, we headed down to the commons for lunch, Lance rubbing his forehead and grimacing. He had a nice egg-sized lump there from the spill, but it was his pride that was wounded more than anything.
I caught the leather greaves he threw at me when I cracked a joke about the event, and though I knew him well enough to be certain he'd get his revenge very soon, I mentally shrugged it off and pushed my luck.
"So Lance," I inquired thoughtfully, "tell me. How do the women get you into bed if you faint as soon as they accept your offer?"
He ground his teeth. "I didn't faint," he snapped tartly. I laughed and turned to face forwards again.
And though I should have been wary of his intentions, I was startled when I was scooped up in someone's arms and thrown over his shoulder, jouncing along as he ran. I shrieked shrilly and clutched at his arm, little whuffs of breath leaving me every time the pauldron on his shoulder jabbed into my solar plexus. I pounded on his back with furious fists.
"No! Let me down, you bastard! I'm telling you, put me down right now or you won't live to see the light of gurgle-blub."
I splashed and sputtered in the cold water of the horse trough with speechless outrage. Wiping a hand across my eyes to clear the droplets from the long, spiky lashes there, I saw Lancelot bent over, supporting himself against the fencepost of the corral while he wheezed fitfully in the throes of hysterical laughter.
"You shouldn't have done that. You should not have done that," I fumed.
When he was coherent once more, he looked at me drenched and sitting despondently in the dirty water. The sight nearly set him off again, but he managed to contain himself and it probably saved his life, too. I glared at him mutely.
"You asked for it," he said by way of apology. I was not appeased.
I stared him down a moment longer and then looked down at my sodden clothing in helpless dismay. I hadn't yet changed out of my practice armor and I knew the wet leather would stiffen and shrink. Damn him.
I glanced at him standing before me, regrettably dry, and put out my hand for him to help me up.
"Oh, no," he held his hands out in front of him as though fending me off. "That one's as old as time. There's no way I'm going to give you that opportunity." And, too, the others shook their heads when I turned my woebegone gaze on them.
Saros shoved his hands in pockets frayed from too much washing and shuffled in place when my eyes landed on him. He stoutly avoided my stare.
"Saros…" My voice was pleading and miserable and warning all at once. He sighed and met my eyes, then came over to me with a muttered oath.
When I was safely out of the wooden trough and wringing out my hair, the young man turned and found Lancelot glaring a glare that promised many sleepless nights and difficult days ahead.
So naturally Saros decided to dig his grave a little deeper. He simply shrugged and jerked his head at me and made me a little less malevolent toward them with his next words.
"She's better with a sword," he said, by way of excuse. I never said he was very bright.
I sloshed to the hall as they roared with laughter and clapped an indignant Lancelot on the shoulder.
Arthur was already at table when I threw open the doors of the hall. Well, one door. They were too heavy to open together, and I wasn't about to make even more of a fool of myself by struggling at it for their amusement.
He looked at me dripping on the rushes for a long moment as the others filed in and sat down. Sipped his wine as he considered me. His mouth twitched.
"If you wanted a bath, I'd have asked the women to have one drawn, Isolde. What did you do now?"
That was the last straw.
"Not a thing," I said tightly. "My lord."
He jerked as if struck. I felt a twinge of regret. To any other person it would seem like a tiny barb, a splinter hardly worthy of notice, but to someone like Arthur, who tried every day to fit in with us, to be our brother and friend above all else, it was a low blow.
"Here, Isolde, he didn't do anything to you," protested Bran, "you shouldn't take your anger out on him."
"Don't you bloody well tell me what I should do, Branor son of Beorgor, unless you're in my damned head with me."
He recoiled and stood abruptly, placing hand on hilt. "Stop while you're ahead, Isolde. That is more than enough for one day."
I felt unexpected sobs well up, and flew out of the hall. I ran to the stables – the first place I could think of – and flung myself into Simargl's stall, taking deep, shuddering breaths. I looked for my equine friend, but he wasn't there. I remembered he'd been put out to pasture with the others. Even he'd abandoned me. I stifled the unfair thought.
Why had I blown up at Arthur that way? He had done no more than tease me like the others had, countless times before. He was my friend, and my commander. And Branor, who had only tried to curb my anger against a man dear to him, had become victim of it as well.
I rested my forehead in the palm of my hand. My eyes felt hot, as though I'd been crying, but I hadn't been able to cry since That Day. I felt the headache beating its drums from the base of my skull spreading outward. I wanted to cry. I needed to cry. But all I had was a migraine, a vague feeling of nausea in my stomach, and a strong urge to kill someone.
It was only months into our knighthood and already I was used to the killing. Once, I asked Wynn if you ever adjusted to it, and he'd said, "There would be something wrong with you if you did."
Was there something wrong with me? I remembered of a sudden the last time I had asked myself that question, only weeks after That Day. I'd suspected I had no heart then.
I still felt little for the massacre but hatred of the Romans who did it. The only ones I found I could love were my brothers-in-arms, and perhaps Brangaine and Evan, and then I went and did something like this to drive them away.
I fingered my knife. It was a pretty thing, more than suitable for its gory work. As flat as parchment, with a shear edge and a tang in the full push style… it was a simple single-edged blade, more like the weapons that were favored by the Saxons, but its simplicity was not crude. A good weapon. I had killed many men with it, cut their throats and gutted them and slipped my blade between their ribs. And for what? For a cause I didn't even believe in.
Such thoughts would drive me mad. I stood with a purpose, and left the stables. Somehow I had sat in the empty stall for nigh on two hours. Yet I knew where my commander would be.
He was indeed bent over papers in his quarters, with Bran, Lancelot, and Kei standing round him. Their quiet talk stopped when they noticed me lingering listlessly in the doorway. Without a word Lance and Kei went from the room, the latter casting me a hard glance, and his message was clear. Don't you dare give him more to worry about, it said. I wasn't planning to.
I spoke to Bran as he passed. He nodded. He understood. His hand clasped my shoulder and he left me alone with my leader.
Right away I crossed to where he stood motionless and knelt, taking his hand and pressing it to my forehead in a silent plea for forgiveness. He knew that I, above all others, was aware of what he dealt with every day, and I understood that in this way I had injured him more than any other could have.
"Forgive me, Arthur. You are my commander, and I don't know what came over me. I should never have tried to hurt you." I waited there for long moments, and each was as unto an hour. I could not see his face.
Finally he pulled me up and embraced me, and said, "I know you've been training the villagers alongside your own work. You broke up the fight between Eryk and Loc this morning, and quite possibly saved one of their lives. You have certainly taken on many headaches that would have been mine. I know the strain you've been under lately; who better? No matter what you do, you are my best friend in many ways."
I mumbled into his chest, "That is no excuse. My behavior was atrocious."
"You're still human, Isolde. We all are. We're none of us immune to anger. We're none of us saints."
The words so nearly echoed my own thoughts of only minutes ago that I almost jumped. I stepped back, feeling rather better than I thought I might. He saw this and smiled gently at me.
"Just promise me you won't do it again."
I thought back on my heated words and smirked with a measure of my usual wry humor. "I promise, Arthur. I'll never address you with respect again."
He laughed, and all was right between us once again. I was forgiven.
LANCELOT…
Lancelot had had a good day. After the initial nastiness from Isolde, which he'd passed off as female volatility, he'd spent the afternoon beating the pants off of young Galahad at the sword – restoring his hurt pride from the remark Saros had earlier made. Then he'd slipped something nice and slimy into the bed of the aforementioned knight (he had just heard him squeal) and gone to drink in the tavern, where two lovely wenches had attached themselves to him for the night. One had turned out to be claimed, and though that fact had never discouraged him, the Roman who had claimed her took exception to his advances and Lance didn't want to add a dead Roman to Arthur's plate (or so he virtuously told himself).
Now he was snuggled up with the second, unclaimed tart after a wild bout of bed play, and was just starting to drift off to sleep.
He woke of a sudden to a bucket full of cold water soaking his head and torso, splashing the woman at his side as well. He howled in shock and cursed long and loud. That wretched girl!
He sighed when he got no response and gave it up as a lost cause. She'd get hers one day. He only hoped he'd be there to see the look on her face.
From afar a woman's hearty chuckle fell lightly and gaily upon his ears, and then all faded to silence. He looked dispassionately at the bawd who sat next to him, bleary-eyed and annoyed at the sudden rude awakening as she wrung water out of her long, dark hair, black as coal in the moonlight.
He thought he heard an echo of that pleasant laughter, not unlike the deeply rolling toll of a bell, and smiled into the dark.
End Chapter.
I know it's a little shorter than usual – I didn't meet my usual goal of 10,000 words, only 8,000 this time– but I had a mild case of writer's block when I started reading something else, where I just wasn't in the mood to write. It doesn't happen often, but when it does it takes a while for me to get in my groove again.
It was a little darker, I'll admit. I wanted you all to see that life wasn't all peachy for them, and there was some tension at times. Just like people in real life, my characters don't always play their roles and sometimes just get fed up for no reason. Maybe she acted childishly, or without provocation, but isn't that just what we all do at times?
Hope you enjoyed it. I don't like to let the sun go down on anger, so to speak, so if you noticed my chapters often end somewhat happily, that's why.
Ribhinn