Hi everyone, welcome to Chapter 10!

For disclaimers and warnings, please see Chapter one.

My thanks again to everyone who dropped me a note to say they were enjoying the story, there's nothing more rewarding! I hope you all enjoy this chapter too, and please don't hestate to review.

Chapter Ten – Buidhecarden

Bors straightened up from his inspection of the grass and rubbed his face wearily, the afternoon sun barely warm on the back of his shaven head.

"Anything?" Bors asked as Galahad and Perceval galloped up.

Perceval answered, his voice tight. "No. Nothing." Galahad just shook his head, unnaturally quiet.

The big Sarmatian surveyed the two-day-old battle field, and muttered a curse under his breath. The bodies of the dead Woads had vanished, carried away by the natives to who knew where, but the horse corpses lay about still and ensured the stench of death and blood had never really left the air, even after yesterday's rain.

Lancelot joined them from the other side, leading his horse and looking tense and stressed. Bors looked around the field once more.

"We've been all the way to the trees and back, Lance. I don't..."

"Well look again!" snapped Lancelot, and Bors saw him throw an anxious glance past his head at Galahad. The Knight sat staring at the ground, unaware of the looks. He and Gawain had been nearly inseparable, and Gawain's death would affect him worse than any before now. Bors knew he wasn't the only one expecting the youngest, most impulsive Knight to lose control and be taken over by the destructive anger that so often drove him, demanding revenge and retribution until he burned himself out. But instead, the older knight's death seemed to have provoked an opposite reaction. After the near-altercation in the tavern the night before last, the boy had barely said two words to the others and not one during their fruitless search of the field, seeming to drift behind Perceval almost a ghost. Gawain's death had changed him alright, but not how anyone had expected, and Bors could only hope the change would just be temporary or he would have ended up losing two friends that day.

"All right, all right, we'll keep looking," Bors grunted at Lancelot. "You're the boss." He climbed back into the saddle, and turned his horse back around.

"Much as I hate to say it, we're nearly out time." Perceval reminded them. "We have to be back at the Wall before nightfall, or they'll lock the gates."

"I know." Lancelot's frustration was no greater than any of theirs. "But there has to be something. He didn't just disappear-"

Lancelot stopped suddenly as there was a shout from across the field, and squinting into the sun Bors saw one of the Knights drop down from horseback into the grass near a small rise.

"Ector's got something," he said. "Come on!"

The other Knights didn't need telling twice. Lancelot jumped up into the saddle and kicked his horse, the beast leapt after the others as they galloped across the field to where Tristan and Ector were searching. Kai was riding to join the group from the other side.

As they approached, Bors saw Ector was lifting something from the grass, Tristan watching silently.

"Ector?"

The Knight held up the object for them to see. It was Gawain's sword; the blade was sheered straight through an inch or two above the hilt.

"Damn it." Bors swore. Everyone else was quiet. Somehow seeing that little piece of Gawain made his loss all the more real, and many of the Knights looked down at the ground. The pain was like a physical blow, even to a veteran like Bors. Images of the mutilated corpses he'd once seen at Branodunum after a Saxon raid drifted into his mind; the way their eyeless sockets staring up at the grey sky. He clenched his fists, furious. There was a distant thud of hooves, and Dagonet rode up to join them.

"I have this too." He said, and held out a long wooden handle, the splintered haft of Gawain's axe. The head was broken off, and looked odd and functionless alone.

Without a word, Ector passed both weapons to Galahad, and the younger Knight took them, dazedly.

"Anyone see anything of Excalibur?" said Lancelot, and the tone of his voice said he hated having to ask.

The other Knights shook their heads. No Excalibur, no Gawain. And they were out of time.

Perceval sighed. "It feels like we've let him down all over again," he murmured. Bors scowled at him for saying it, but he had to agree.

"We have his sword," reminded Kai. "He can receive a warrior's funeral now." The red-headed Knight nudged his horse closer to Galahad's, unpinning his cloak as he did so. The boy was staring at Gawain's sword hilt as if it was about to start speaking to him. It took Kai calling his name twice to drag him from his daze.

"Here," said Kai calmly, and took the broken weapons. He wrapped them carefully in his cloak like a shroud, and passed them back to the youngest knight. Galahad took the bundle and held it so tightly his fingers went white. Bors looked around at the silent Knights tiredly, and wondered if any of them had really slept at all over the last two nights.

There was a bitter cry from the sky above and a flutter of wings as Tristan's hawk, Yseult, fell from the sky and landed on the scout's arm. Tristan murmured something and let her nip at his finger.

"There are Woads on the move," he said, "Heading this way." Bors rolled his eyes but said nothing about Tristan and his bloody bird.

"Come," said Dagonet. "This place has seen enough death. We should go."

The Knights turned south and left the battlefield behind once more, and the betrayal felt even more painful than before.

"Buidhecarden?"A hand shook him awake, and the voice whispered in Gawain's ear, and for a moment he was confused. That didn't sound like one of the Knights. Then he remembered the Woads.

"Fiachra?" He asked hoarsely.

"Sàmhach," said the woman, and the cool hand pressed over his mouth made the meaning of the word obvious.

She pulled firmly at his sleeve and then just like that, she was gone. Gawain blinked behind the blindfold, trying to shake off the heavy sleep that lay over him. He drew his bound hands up to his chest and carefully rolled over onto his right side, and then up to sitting. The hot burn of pain in his abdomen raced through him unchecked and felt his lungs spasm, leaving him breathless and disorientated.

"Easy there," said Kai, steadying his shoulder. "Take shallow breaths."

"I'm not...listening to you," Gawain mumbled, breathlessly. "You're not even real."

"True," admitted Kai, "But you know I'm right all the same."

After a couple of breaths, the pain died down and Gawain was surprised to find it better than before, more manageable. The sleep, water and rest, combined with whatever dubious treatment the Woads had provided had done enough to make him feel somewhat renewed. Not healed yet, but stronger. Just then he heard the softest limping footfalls as the Woad returned.

She said nothing else to him, but pushed a wooden cup into his hands. Awkwardly, and wincing at the movement of his broken collarbone, Gawain managed to raise bound hands to his mouth, and quickly swallowed down the water. It was wonderful.

Fiachra took the cup away from his hand, and replaced it with something else; it felt like a soft stringy leaf. The Knight just sat there unsure what to do, until the Woad, clearly impatient, took the object back, and pushed it into his mouth for him.

"Ith, fudaidh." She hissed. He chewed automatically, and recognised the familiar bitter taste of willow-bark. It would help dull the pain and fever even more.

Then, the woman was standing up, and pulling on his sleeve again. He had to stand for some reason. He was being taken somewhere. To be executed? Rian said he had a reprieve for one day. But if his death was sanctioned, why was Fiachra so keen to keep him quiet? And why treat his wounds?

The Woad tugged insistently again, and Gawain rose, slowly. He felt hands on his arms to steady him, and wasn't sure if they belonged to the Woad or one of his hallucinations. Either way, he finally made it to his feet, and Fiachra, by a handful of his hair this time, dragged him stumbling away. He wondered for a moment about over-powering her and fleeing, though Woad women were notoriously fierce, and even injured as this one was she might prove more than an adversary to him right now. Also, it seemed a little ungracious to attack the one of the only living things in this accursed forest that hadn't tried to kill him yet.

Gawain stumbled on a root. Cursing, he raised his hands, intending to pull away the annoying blindfold, but a cold hand on his stopped him.

"Sguir, Buidhecarden" she said, and for some reason he did stop.

Having been intent up to now on his improved pains, Gawain took a moment to absorb his immediate surroundings. He was still in the forest, but the air was cooler than before but not yet cold, so it was probably afternoon or evening. He thought he could hear voices in the distance but the trees muffled his perception and he wasn't sure how far away they were. The Woad tugged his hair sharply and he managed not to growl, trying to quicken his pained steps to match her limping ones as he stumbled blindly after her.

Finally, the distant voices he heard faded from perception, and the grip on his hair went slack as Fiachra stopped. Dizzy and exhausted, Gawain stumbled sideways and found a sturdy tree to lean against, breathing heavily. He couldn't hear the Woad; he hoped she was still there because he was completely disorientated.

"Maybe you should seduce her," suggested Lancelot. "And then maybe she'd help you escape."

Seduce? Gawain thought, Lancelot, are you out of your tiny mind? I can hardly stand up and I think I might be slowly bleeding to death. Seduction is not really appropriate right now.

"Actually, I'm out of your tiny mind. Besides," snorted Lancelot, "That's just quitter's talk. Seduction is never inappropriate."

"Oh really?" said Ector, from the other side, "What about that time when you went off with the daughter of that visiting Roman Governor, except she turned out to be his wife, and-"

"Alright, alright," said Lancelot, hurriedly. "Apart from that time."

Besides, said Gawain, silently, trying to get his hallucinated knights back under control, I have enough Woads trying to kill me without adding Rian to that score as well.

As if his thoughts had conjured the Woad up, he suddenly heard Rian's voice to his left, speaking softly with Fiachra. Their conversation in Pictish ended, and the pair quickly approached the Knight.

"Rian?"

"Buidhecarden. You may go," said the Woad in Latin.

"What?" asked Gawain, numb and confused. He had not really expected mercy from the Woads, because, well, he didn't deserve it. How many of this boy's kinfolk had he killed over the years?

"Your reprieve is ended," said Rian. "The Elders voted, you were to die tomorrow. But we still felt we owed you the Blood-debt, and now it is repaid."

While he had been speaking, the Woad had unbound his hands and slipped the blindfold off his eyes. Gawain blinked, even the tree-green light seemed dazzling in his eyes and they watered. The two Woads slowly came into focus; pale blue shapes against the dark leaves. They had untied him. They were letting him go.

"Won't you be in trouble?" He asked, not knowing what else to say.

"You escaped," said Rian, "They may suspect. But Fiachra has visions, from the goddess. If they question it, she can have told us to release you."

The female Woad watched them impassively. The religious duplicity made the Knight feel rather dazed but he said nothing.

"We led you in rings," Rian continued, "So you will not find your way back. But the Wall is that way." He pointed.

Gawain nodded. "Thank you," he breathed, knowing the words were inadequate.

The Woad nodded, and said; "There is this too." He lifted a bundle that had remained unnoticed at his feet, and handed it the Gawain. The yellow fabric was instantly familiar; it was his tattered cloak, and wrapped inside was a packet containing a little more willow bark, the crude sling he had been wearing when he was captured, and, wonder of wonders, Excalibur.

Gawain stared at the beautiful sword for a long time, his brain too tired to comprehend what had just happened.

"Let's see..." said Bors, counting off on his fingers. "Knight is injured by Woads. Knight accidently finds ancestral magic sword, sacred to said Woads. Knight gets captured by said Woads carrying said magic sword. Instead of executing him immediately as a thief and a spy, Woads treat Knight very nicely and return magic sword to him before letting him go."

It might be just the trauma of his injuries but to Gawain's mind it made no sense at all.

"Nope," said Bors. "For once, Gawain, your mind ain't faulty. It don't make any sense."

Perceval shrugged. "Maybe they're not all the savages we think they are."

Gawain looked up from the sword to find the Woads had vanished. Presumably they had taken his preoccupation as a chance to slip away, so he wouldn't see which way they went.

"Thank you!" he called hoarsely, hoping they would hear, but got only silence as a response.

Painfully, the Knight tucked his arm back into the sling, and the relief as the weight was lifted off the infected wound and broken collarbone was indescribable. He peered at the stab wound on his side; the Woads seemed to have wrapped more bandages on top of the cloths already there. Blood hadn't soaked through the outer layer yet; he hoped that meant it wasn't still bleeding. Time to go, while the benefits of the day's rest and willow bark were still in his favour. Gawain pulled away from the support of the tree, slid Excalibur into his empty belt ring, and turned south.

TBC.

Language note - As mentioned in Chapter 7, the little bits of 'Pictish' in this story is represented by Scottish Gaelic (the internet is really really great...). Completely linguistically and historically incorrect but what the heck, you get the idea. And that's why they call it fanfic... The meaning of what's said should be inherent in the text. Don't worry, we'll get on to 'Buidhecarden' later.

We're on the home stretch now, ladies and gents! Not long to go.

Thanks for stopping by.

~Nienna