Hello all,

Apologies for the lengthy delay and shortness of this chapter, that pesky thing called Real Life reared its ugly head again and I was called out of the country unexpectedly. Hopefully back on track now, so more frequent updates will happen again soon. Thanks for bearing with me. ~N

Chapter Nine - Reprieve

Tristan was tying the fittings on the sides of his armour as the first hazy curve of the golden sun peaked above the horizon, sending bright fingers of blood-red across the sky. The morning mists would soon burn away and the riding would be good.

The scout easily heard the other man and horse enter the courtyard, but ignored their approach until the other finally spoke.

"Going somewhere?" said Galahad's voice, and Tristan looked up to see the younger Knight, dressed in light travelling armour and cloak, and leading his horse. He was armed to the teeth.

Tristan was silent for a moment, trying to decide if he wanted company or not. Finally, deciding he didn't really have much of a choice, he said; "Going to find Gawain."

"Good," said Galahad. "Me too," and he swung up into the saddle.

There was another echo of hooves by the gate, and Ector rounded the corner leading his horse, followed by Bors and Dagonet, riding at a slow walk. Tristan didn't let his irritation show on his face. He knew the other Knights would all show up too, but they could at least be punctual.

"Morning," Bors greeted Galahad and Tristan. The other two just nodded. No-one felt much like talking today.

"Perce and Kai are on their way," added the big Knight, and sure enough, less than a minute later, Kai and Perceval entered the courtyard on horseback, dressed for fast riding and an all-out war.

"Everyone here?" said Kai. There were nods all around.

"Let's go kill some Woads," said Bors, with a savage grin.

The Knights turned their horses, and rode off through the lightening fort down the Via Principalis towards the main gate. From here, they would take the short stretch of road that led to the Wall, and then it was just a matter of persuading or threatening the guards into opening the Wall gate. If Arpagius's men were on patrol today, things would get a lot more complicated.

An eighth rider waited for them outside the Porta Praetoria by the fort road, his horse tossing its dark head, impatient as its master.

"Gentlemen," Lancelot greeted them lazily.

"Lancelot!" said Ector. "And they let a 'reprobate' like you out of prison after only one day?"

The Knight smiled. Clearly the legionnaire guard Arpagius had brought with him to the prison had been persuaded to be indiscrete about their conversation. "It's my winning charm," Lancelot said, and then held up a sealed paper.

"From Arthur," he explained. "Permission to cross the Wall."

Kai grinned, dangerously. "Oh, I'd love to see Arpagius try and stop us now."

The Knights kicked their horses and rode out into the dawn light, together. And for once, Tristan thought, being together was good.

Gawain awoke.

When he considered it, he was slightly surprised to have done so. Shouldn't he be dead by now?

He was still blindfolded and bound, feverish and lying on his back on the grass in what sounded like the middle of a Woad encampment. It said something about his fortunes of late that is was the most comfortable awakening he'd had in a long time. What an irony then, that he probably was about to die.

Gawain sensed a movement nearby, and someone seated themselves down on the floor by his side. There was a soft murmur of Woad speech and something was passed over his head.

He tensed, expecting a blow or a blade. He was surprised instead by a soft touch to his wounded shoulder, and it made him flinch; he pulled away with a noise of pain.

The Pictish language drifted about him again, before a closer voice spoke firmly in rough Latin.

"Be still. You are sick."

Gawain felt sick. He was weak and shaking, cold but consumed by a burning heat all at the same time. His pulse thudded strangely in his ears and he felt as if all his left side was throbbing. The Knight rolled his head fitfully to one side, but he could see nothing.

The Woad on his left brushed away the hair that was sticking to his face, before sliding a small hand under the back of neck and raising his head. A cup touched his lips, and a thousand thoughts ran through his feverish mind. Was this poison, some new method of humane execution? Perhaps they were drugging him as a precursor to interrogation. Perhaps... He quickly turned his head away.

"Drink, Buidhecarden. It is water only."

The cup followed the movement of his head, and before Gawain could think anything else, he was drinking, and the cool, brackish water could have been the finest wine for the Pope's table, it tasted so good to his parched mouth.

All too soon the cup was empty, and a cloth even wiped away the droplets that had run into his beard. Why were they doing this? Gawain's mind felt numb, lethargic and he couldn't make sense of what was happening.

"Don't worry," said Tristan, sardonically. "You never were the sharpest arrow in the quiver, even on a good day."

"Great," he mumbled out loud, voice slurring. "I feel like I'm dying and I still have to put up with you lot."

"Gawain," said Arthur, gently. "You are dying."

He sighed. "I know."

Somewhere above him, the two Woads were talking rapidly, and their tones sounded anxious. The one with the familiar voice leaned forwards again.

"Buidhecarden, do you sleep?"

"No," answered Gawain, hoarsely. "Who're you?"

The Woad on his left, from the voice he thought it a woman, lifted Gawain's bound wrists from resting on his torso and moved them to one side, before lifting his brigandine. Gawain felt a slight sensation of cold air on the skin of his abdomen, and the pressure of a bandage before the wound was covered up again. They must have dressed the stab wound already.

"I am Rian, she Fiachra. You killed the wolves for us."

Gawain only vaguely took in the explanation as both sets of hands worked to peel the leather back off his shoulder wound. A freezing hand touched his burning, swollen skin and sent a hot dart of agony through his arm. He groaned, and twisted weakly.

"The skin has gone sour," explained the Woad. "The blade sickness."

"It's infected, badly," said Dagonet.

Gawain hadn't needed to be told; the smell of the infected pus was strong in the air and nearly made him gag. The female Woad spoke to the other, and there was a faint ceramic chink as a vessel was placed on the floor. Gawain thought he smelled healing sage and garlic.

"Why are you helping me?" He asked.

There was a moment's silence, before Rian answered.

"You bear Excalibur. You are protected this today."

Fiachra said something quietly, and Rian translated.

"You helped us with the wolves. You should have killed us. Now be still," he said, "We have taken out the arrow, and now must make clean the cut."

"Ouch," said Ector, "I'd be somewhere else if I was you."

"You'll be alright," said Galahad with conviction. "Just keep still, Gawain."

As the cloth dragged boiling hot water over the infected skin of his shoulder, Gawain decided to take Ector's advice, and passed out.

TBC.


Thanks for reading. If you enjoyed, have any comments or questions, please review and let me know!

Nienna.