Fic: Turning Away 1/3 (King Arthur)
May. 7th, 2006 11:03 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ivyficTitle: Turning Away, 1/3
Author: Ivy
Rating: PG
Warning: WIP
Summary: Arthur should have known that if Lancelot ever returned to England, it would be at the head of an invading army.
Post-movie Lancelot lives AU.
A/N: Thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
trinityvixen, feiran, jethrien and dotsomething for the beta.
***
Prologue
Six years after the Battle of Badon Hill
*
Gildas shook the snow from his furs as he stepped into the tavern. Night fell early here. The trees, so near the Black Forest, trapped the light so that even at noon it felt like twilight. He stepped further into the room, away from the cold draught of the threshold. The scent of men was overwhelming in the close air, sweat trapped in fur and leather.
He scanned the room, noticing men gaming, drinking, and tormenting the barmaids. He had heard that a troop of Visigoths were camped here, awaiting the spring to push further East. Toward the back of the room, he spotted one man sitting alone, the area around him free from other soldiers as if his presence alone was enough to hold them at bay. This must be the man he had heard of, the mercenary responsible for more Roman defeats than any other.
Gildas approached the man cautiously. His back was turned towards the door; a dark tangled braid fell between his shoulder blades. Gildas rehearsed again to himself the speech he had been sent to give. When he had almost reached the table, the man whirled and Gildas found a bone blade pressed to his throat. The man holding the blade looked at him for a moment, then laughed. Startled, Gildas froze and tried not to look like a threat. Raising an eyebrow, the man sheathed his knife. Gildas realized why the others left him alone.
"You are Lancelot of Sarmatia?" he asked.
"I am Lancelot, yes. If you want more answer than that," he said, and raised his empty flagon.
Gildas fumbled for his purse and called a barmaid over. When Lancelot’s glass was full, he gestured magnanimously to the seat across from him. Gildas took it, studying the angular face before him. From the stories he had heard, Gildas had expected a dark barbarian, savage and barely human. He had not expected this jester. Though his hair was long, his beard was close-trimmed, Roman style. He looked more like a ladies man than a warrior.
"I am Gildas. I have been sent by Vortigern of the Saxons to find you."
"All this way for one man? A dangerous mission. There are demons that live in these woods, you know. They lure a man from the path and tear him apart. I have seen it with my own eyes," Lancelot leaned conspiratorially across the table.
Gildas had heard the tales as well, and often on the journey had imagined faces in the trees, but he was not some maid to be frightened by fairy tales.
"I have come to make you an offer," Gildas pressed on. "I have heard your services are available to the highest bidder. Vortigern would be willing to pay you to fight for him – five times what you are earning now."
Lancelot smirked. "A kingly sum! He would do better to hire a hundred common soldiers than one old knight."
"From what I have heard of you, you are worth a hundred soldiers – more in a battle. Men we have." Gildas focused intently on Lancelot, but the other man’s smile never faltered. "We need someone to train them, to lead them into battle."
"Are you preparing for war?" Lancelot inquired.
"We are always preparing for war."
Lancelot laughed. "That much I know about the Saxons. Always taking what is not yours."
Gildas spared a moment to look around the room at the Visigoth soldiers. He pursed his lips meaningfully, then looked back at Lancelot. "And your men do not?"
Lancelot remained silent, but the smile had fallen from his lips.
Gildas closed in. "You have been stationed here for months, rotting. Your men, rotting. We have heard rumors of what Theodoric is planning for his armies. But even if he moves against Rome, it could be years before you see battle again. Is that what you want – to waste away here in this cursed land? I am offering you an army. And a fight. Can you deny that you long for it?"
Lancelot looked down at the table, spinning his flagon idly along its rim. "You want me to train an army to defeat Artorius Castus?"
"Yes," Gildas breathed.
Lancelot looked back at him, his eyes narrowing. He smiled again, but this was not the charming smile of before. Now he smiled like a wolf scenting its prey. "I will come."
***
Part I
One Year Later
*
"Are you coming?" Galahad’s voice called from the courtyard.
Arthur handed his son Gareth back to his nursemaid. Gareth was barely four and favored his mother's Woad looks strongly. It was at Guinevere's insistence that they'd hired Eithne, a Woad, to nurse the boy.
Gareth made a grab for Arthur's hair, and when Arthur twisted his head out of the way, kicked him in the chest. "Now Gareth," Arthur said with no real severity, "we've talked about this before. I can not stay with you every day. That's why you must be good for Eithne."
"Oh, he's no trouble." Eithne replied and jostled him on her hip. Gareth was getting too big to be coddled so, but didn't seem to resent it yet.
She cooed to Gareth in the Woad tongue and he replied sulkily back. It had been a shock to Arthur when Gareth's first words had been in that language, but he was now equally fluent in his father's Latin as his mother's Pictish. When he grew old enough, his ability to translate would be of great use.
Gareth turned a smile to Arthur and waved. "Bye Da!"
Arthur took his leave, knowing that if he stayed any longer, Galahad would surely search him out in the nursery. He liked to visit there every morning before the business of governing began. If he had known that being King meant ten times more bureaucratic nonsense than when he had led the knights, he may never have agreed to it. But as ill-suited as he felt to the game of politics, he could not deny the duty he felt to this land and these people. And so far, the uneasy alliance forged at Badon Hill had been enough to prevent any serious threat from the Saxons. He prayed it would continue so.
Arthur headed out of the royal chambers, passing Guinevere. She bussed him on the cheek. "Remember to show every courtesy to Ninian. He may be snake, but we need his trade contacts."
"That's why I'm taking Galahad along," Arthur replied with a smile. "He will charm the merchant without any prompting from me."
"Only if there are any unattached women in the caravan. You need to find him a wife so he stops pestering my maids." It was an old joke between them – Galahad spent all his free energy looking for a wife, but for all that, had found none that suited him. He'd run completely through the women in Camelot already. Without new blood, he would surely remain a bachelor, to Bors's great amusement.
"Don't let him linger too long," Guinevere said. "If you return quickly I shall be able to use your help with the visitors from the Northern tribes." With that, Guinevere glided back into her chambers to finish pinning her hair.
It was Guinevere's wish that they have separate rooms. She came to him when she willed it, like that first night by Hadrian's Wall. Arthur thought it was to remind him that she may be wed, but she would never be tamed.
Arthur stepped into the courtyard. Though the warm weather was welcome, the attending rain had turned everything to mud, and he did not look forward to the day’s ride. Galahad was already mounted, and looking impatient. As he crossed to the stable, he noticed two other figures on horseback – Bors and Gawain.
"Are you all so interested in merchants?" Arthur asked, already suspicious. Meeting a caravan of merchants journeying from Roman territory was a chore at best. Galahad had barely agreed to join him. Arthur couldn’t imagine why the others would want to come.
Gawain looked at Galahad incredulously. "You didn’t tell him?"
Galahad smiled smugly. Bors was clearly amused by all this. "Tell me what?"
"The caravan is being guarded by a knight. A Sarmatian knight."
Arthur looked at Gawain and Bors for confirmation, though Galahad would know not to joke about this. Both the old knights smiled broadly, and Arthur could feel his own face split by the same expression.
"They say he’s dark-haired, fights with two swords…" Galahad continued.
Arthur laughed for sheer joy. "Lancelot!"
The others were laughing with him. He ran to the stables, eager to race out and meet his old friend. Lancelot had left for Sarmatia seven years ago, and in that time Arthur had not seen or heard from him. This was not surprising given the great distance, but still he missed his closest friend. He would lie awake some nights, the longing for that beloved face an almost physical pain. Arthur knew Lancelot wanted to live out his days in peace in his homeland, and he couldn’t begrudge him that, but he still wished…
Wishes wouldn’t matter now, though. It was just like Lancelot to try to sneak in without sending word ahead. Arthur galloped out of Camelot with his three knights streaking behind him, already hearing Lancelot’s welcoming laugh in his head. It didn’t matter if Lancelot was only here for a week before going home, or if he would stay longer. All that mattered was that the five of them would feast together tonight.
The four riders followed the curve of the Tyne River for a time before turning south. Once Arthur becoming King had proved more than a fleeting idea, he had been forced to see the folly of staying in the garrison at Hadrian's Wall. So close to the frontier held by the Saxons and the few Woad tribes unwilling to submit to any yoke, it was far too vulnerable a seat of government. Though it broke his heart to leave behind the quarters he had shared with his knights and the little graveyard beyond, he had moved east to another old Roman fort at Camelot. It was far enough from the Wall to be easily defensible, but close enough to maintain a hold on the frontier.
The merchants were approaching overland from the ports at the South of Britain. Arthur and his fellows crested a hill, already deep green with spring growth, and saw the caravan below them, plodding along the old Roman road. And at the front of the caravan was a lone figure, indistinct, but Arthur could clearly see the hilts of two swords strapped to his back.
Arthur turned to look at Galahad, Gawain and Bors, each in turn, then spurred his steed.
They approached the caravan from the rear, the merchants slowing to a halt when they heard approaching hooves. Arthur watched eagerly as the lone knight circled around the front wagon and approached them.
As soon as he came into full view, Arthur knew it was wrong. The man had the coloring of Lancelot, the head of black curls, the swords, but he was too tall, his armor was wrong. Even the way he moved on his horse – wrong, wrong, wrong.
Arthur dismounted and waited until the knight did the same. He spent a long moment searching the man’s face, trying to find some trace of the man he wished it to be, but even the ravages of time could not change one man into another. This was not Lancelot.
Hiding the cold feeling he felt in his stomach, Arthur smiled at the knight. "I am Arthur. I welcome you to Britain."
The man nodded briefly. "I am Surhat. I accept your hospitality."
He was too grave, Arthur decided. Lancelot was never so solemn. Arthur glanced back at the others and saw the same disappointment on all their faces. This had not been a trick of Galahad’s; if the fault was his, it was only because of his desire that the rumors he had heard meant what they all wanted them to mean. They had lost too many knights over the years, to Woads and disease and the bitter cold. These three decided to stay close to each other and to Arthur in their freedom. They had all grieved when Lancelot did not stay as well.
"Do you come from Sarmatia?" Galahad asked.
"Yes," Surhat replied, clearly puzzled.
"Tell me," Arthur asked, "have you heard of one called Lancelot there?"
"Lancelot," Surhat said with disgust. "The madman?"
Arthur felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. "No, Lancelot was a knight in the Roman army. He returned home a few years ago."
"It is the same man," Surhat said. Arthur clenched his fist, but Surhat continued unaware. "My sister married a man in that tribe, I’ve heard them speak of Lancelot. They say he rode his horse without rest across the plains, not returning for days. He had no respect for the old ways. Even the children were frightened from him."
Arthur could feel the tension radiating from the men behind him. He saw Gawain quietly take Galahad’s arm, preventing the attack his angry countenance predicted. Arthur looked back at Surhat. He wished to deny it, but what Surhat said – it sounded exactly like the man he knew. "Is he still there?" he asked quietly.
"No, mercifully. He disappeared one night, about five years ago. There are some that say he enchanted himself into a horse and rode away," Surhat shrugged. "If you ask me, he just drowned himself."
*
"Arthur," Gawain said, dismounting. Arthur continued into the stable, hands wrapped into the reigns so tightly the leather bit into his palm. The ride back had been in silence – he’d all but abandoned Gawain to handle the traders. It was only by sheer determination that Gawain and the others had managed to catch up to him before they reached Camelot.
"Arthur," Gawain trotted towards him. "We cannot know –"
Arthur threw aside the reigns, interrupting Gawain’s thoughts. "Do you believe it is not true?"
Gawain shifted his eyes from Arthur’s gaze. "Sarmatia is a large place. We cannot know… And what he told us – it was second-hand. Just idle gossip. Gossip is often far from the truth."
Arthur looked closely at Gawain’s face. His cast belied his words; he was as grieved by the news as Arthur. Arthur squeezed his eyes shut. "Even in gossip there is some sliver of truth. I –" He turned back to his horse, distracting himself by running his hands carelessly along the soft nose. "I failed him. I should not have let him go."
"Arthur," Gawain began, his tone equal parts aggravated and conciliatory. "You had no duty left to him. He was a free man. It was his choice to leave. You cannot take responsibility for the consequences of that."
Arthur rested his forehead against the horse’s neck, clinging to the reigns. The horse turned its head, jostling him. "He should not have gone alone."
Gawain remained silent for a moment, and Arthur regretted implying that Gawain and his other faithful knights should have gone with Lancelot. "If you had asked him to stay, do you think he would have?" Gawain asked quietly.
That was the heart of it, Arthur knew, and the very reason he had never spoken of it to Lancelot. "No. He was a stubborn man." Gawain chuckled. Arthur turned to look at him and continued. "He tried to hide from me how much he missed his – your – home. But he could never have been happy remaining here with me."
Gawain nodded, silently agreeing. "He made his choice of his own free will. You cannot wish anything more for him than that. What has become of him – if something has become of him – those too were his decisions to make. You cannot blame yourself for every mistake that pig-headed fool has made," Gawain said with affection. "That is too much weight for even you to bear."
Arthur nodded, but could not help feeling that he could have saved Lancelot from this. There was a moment when he could have spoken and did not. If he had had the right words, maybe Lancelot would have stayed. But even now Arthur did not know what those words were.
***
Lancelot stood with his back to the door, in front of the sick bed he had occupied for so long. He held up his leather armor before him, running his fingers over the hole made by a Saxon arrow.
Arthur stood a moment in the doorway, enjoying the sight of Lancelot, whole again. He had sat many nights by his side in the early days after the battle, sure that his closest friend would die. Even after he had awoken, the surgeon had told him the outcome was far from clear. But despite all that, Arthur could now see the fullness of Lancelot’s recovery with his own eyes. "You will need new armor," he said, stepping inside.
Lancelot turned to him, his face still wan from the remnants of fever. He smiled softly. "I hope not," he said, and laid the armor on the bed. "I was thinking of keeping it as a remembrance, so that when my grandchildren ask I can regale them with tales of Lancelot and his knights of the round table."
Arthur laughed. "Lancelot’s knights?"
"Oh, yes, and his faithful servant Arthur. A little clumsy with a sword, but his heart was in the right place."
"And will your … grandchildren … indulge the stories of an old man?"
Lancelot smirked. "That is why I’d have the armor, so that when they tire of hearing from me they could run their hands over this." Lancelot ran a finger along a score mark caused by a sword in a forgotten battle. He circled again the hole pierced just above the heart, where dried blood still clung, invisible against the black leather.
Arthur was gladdened by his friend’s cheer. He regretted that he had not been able to visit him recently – the business of building a state took all his time. He had missed this.
"But I don’t think it will fit in my packs," Lancelot continued. "It will be a luxury not to need it."
Arthur looked around the room and saw the preparations Lancelot had already made. The few possessions he had were cleared away into two saddle packs – all he would take with him of England on his journey home. Lancelot smiled at him sadly, holding his gaze, like he was waiting for something.
Lancelot shook his head and reached for one of the bags. When he lifted it, he gave a soft grunt and dropped it on the bed, his right arm reaching to massage his left shoulder.
Arthur reached to soothe it, but Lancelot caught his wrist, keeping his hand from touching him. Arthur looked at his caught hand, surprised at Lancelot’s reluctance and the hardness now in his face. "It still pains you," Arthur said.
Lancelot smiled again, tightly, and let go of Arthur’s arm. Arthur did not reach out again. "I suspect I will always know when it will rain," Lancelot said, and turned from Arthur again. "I hear congratulations are in order," he spoke to a corner of the room.
Arthur shifted slightly. Marrying Guinevere had been the right choice for the new Woad-Briton alliance, sealing their two peoples together, and he could not say that he regretted its other benefits. He had wished that Lancelot would be there to drink his health, but the knight had still been fevered, and the alliance too uncertain to wait.
"Will you tell your grandchildren of your faithful servant, Lancelot?"
"They will all grow tired of your name, I will speak it so often," Arthur smiled.
"Good."
"You leave next fortnight?" Arthur asked.
"Or sooner. It will take months to reach Sarmatia. I hope to be home before the snows." Lancelot looked at him then with a hope so sharp it hurt Arthur to see it. It was a look Arthur had witnessed many times over their years together, though Lancelot tried to hide it. It was the look Arthur knew meant Lancelot was thinking of home. Unlike his other knights, Lancelot almost never spoke of his life before conscription, but Arthur knew he held it dear.
Lancelot did not try to hide now. "Will you pray to your God that I arrive safely?" he asked, his voice thinned by an emotion Arthur could not guess at.
"You have survived fifteen years under my care. There is nothing God could place in your path now that would compare with what you have already overcome." He looked at Lancelot’s face. He’d known that face since before the first hint of a beard, when it was still rounded with childish fat. He’d watched it bloodied and bruised; he’d known it filled with joy and overcome with grief. But nothing he had seen before quite captured the expression he saw now. He felt something there, fragile and fleeting, that he must capture before it died away. It was like a rope connecting the two of them, frayed to its last cord, vibrating with tension. He had to hold onto it. "I will miss you."
Lancelot turned away and strode toward the window. The feeling of the previous moment disappeared, and Arthur could not convince himself that it had been real. It was just himself and Lancelot now, as it had always been.
Lancelot stared silently out the window until Arthur left.
***
Lancelot was on horseback, surveying his men as they ran drills in swordsmanship when Gildas found him. Lancelot remembered the fierceness of the Saxon army he had fought at Badon Hill – their sheer blood-thirsty madness. When Gildas had brought him here, far north of Hadrian ’s Wall, the previous spring, he had found an army of men equally as brutal.
But Lancelot also remembered the chaos of Badon Hill. Arthur had planned out his attack, trusting that his men would follow his orders even in the midst of battle. And it was that discipline that had allowed them to systematically wipe out a much larger Saxon force.
When he first saw the Saxon army he was to command, he knew that in battle they would rush headlong into the enemy, sloppily swinging their swords, and be killed in great numbers. He had spent all his time since then drilling into them the discipline of the Roman cavalry, and forcing them to relearn everything they thought they’d known about combat. Against Arthur’s army, and the stealthy tactics of the Woads, he would need discipline. He smiled coldly at the lines of men before him.
"They look like Romans," Gildas side, drawing his horse alongside Lancelot’s.
"There’s a reason the Romans conquered so many peoples," Lancelot replied, still critically eyeing his men.
"Yes, and there’s a reason why the Visigoths are cutting them to shreds. You should know that."
"Of course. The Romans are too staid in their ways, they do not adapt. We will not have that problem."
Gildas nodded considering, then turned to face Lancelot. "You are to return to camp. Vortigern has arrived. He wishes to speak with you."
Lancelot turned his horse back towards camp, following Gildas. They had received word some days ago that the Saxon leader would be arriving. Lancelot was eager to finally meet the man that had brought him here.
When they rode into camp, Lancelot dismounted and approached the largest tent. These were the quarters he normally took for himself, but were clearly forfeit for the duration of Vortigern’s stay. He pushed aside the flap, blinking into the dimness. Gildas strode in behind him.
The man in the center of the tent turned to face him. He wore the leather and furs of the Saxons, protection against the harsh winds of the North. But his hair was close cut and his cheeks clean-shaven. His face was angular and sharp; Lancelot saw there a biting intelligence. This was a man that would not shrink from brutality, but would not indulge in it if it were not necessary. The look in his eyes reminded Lancelot of Arthur in the moments before battle.
"Vortigern," Lancelot said, and inclined his head.
"Ah, you are Lancelot." Vortigern spread his arms in welcome. "I have heard much of you, and the wonders you have worked with the men."
Lancelot smiled. "I am only a soldier, ready for battle."
Gildas stepped into the shadows of the lantern’s light, watching the two men. "And are the men ready for battle?" Vortigern asked.
"I believe they are. But we must be cautious. We do not have enough to risk a full assault on Camelot."
"Yes," Vortigern said. "There was a time when we would not have hesitated, but I fear we have not yet recovered from our defeat at Badon Hill." Vortigern looked intently at Lancelot. "You fought in that battle against us."
"Yes," Lancelot said, wary. Though the Saxons had sought him out, he stilled feared that it was out of some foolish desire for retribution. Even though he had been living among them for almost a year, he found himself unnerved by Vortigern’s intensity.
"My brother Cerdic led that assault."
Lancelot clenched his teeth. "Your brother? Then I must tell you that I killed your nephew."
Vortigern smiled softly. "I had heard as much, but it is never good to trust rumors. It is good to know that at least some of the tales about you are true." Vortigern frowned, pacing slowly across the narrow space. "Cerdic was a fool. A brave man, truly, but far too confident. I argued against the full-scale invasion, but Cerdic never contemplated the possibility of defeat. Part of what made him so fierce in battle." He looked at Lancelot. "You will find that I am a much more patient man than Cerdic."
Vortigern sat on the sole chair placed in the tent, taking a moment to adjust his furs. "That defeat set us back generations. It decimated our military. But Cerdic did far worse. By attacking then, he forced the Britons and the Woads to join together. Against the two peoples combined, we cannot possibly hope to triumph."
Lancelot raised an eyebrow. "If you are so certain of your defeat, why are you training an army?"
Vortigern smiled and leaned forward. "The alliance between the Woads and the Britons is a weak one. You fought the Woads for many years, you must understand how many of your countrymen feel."
Lancelot pressed his lips together. "They are not my countrymen."
"Of course." Vortigern waved his hand in an absent gesture of apology. "If we harry them below the Wall, we will only force the Britons and the Woads closer together. But in the end, the alliance rests on only one man."
"Arthur."
"Yes. If we remove Arthur, the alliance will fall apart. The Britons would never accept Merlin as a leader and they have no one of their own to offer. There would be a struggle for dominance, and all the prejudices born of generations of fighting would bubble up again. We would need to do nothing but wait and they would surely go to war. The Woads will drive the Britons towards the sea. All we’d need to do is sweep in behind the Woads, and clean up the shattered remnants of that people."
"And then you would be masters of Britain."
"Exactly."
"If you can kill Arthur."
Vortigern seemed pleased Lancelot had grasped the situation so quickly. "Exactly so. But as you said, we have not the men to assault Camelot."
Lancelot smiled, the same smile Gildas had seen in the tavern near the Black Forest. "We do not need to. Let me take the men south to Banna. The fort there is easily defensible by a strong enough force, but my scouts tell me Arthur's armies are spread too thin along the frontiers. With my full force, I could take it."
"But what could you possibly hope to gain from such a venture? You might take the garrison, but you could not hope to hold it for long," Vortigern replied scornfully.
"I would not need to. Reinforcements would come, yes. And leading them would be Arthur."
Gildas could not hold his tongue any longer at this madman’s plan. "Surely Arthur would not be so foolish. He would stay safe in Camelot and send a lieutenant to crush our incursion."
Lancelot turned to Gildas, his body taught. His voice was absolutely certain. "You do not know Arthur. He always faces an enemy head on. He will come."
Vortigern nodded towards Gildas. "But why would he risk so much? Surely he must see his own importance."
Lancelot turned back to Vortigern. "He does. But he feels too keenly the duty he has towards his men. He would not send men to fight anywhere he feared to go."
Gildas snorted. "A foolhardy king."
"Maybe," Lancelot said.
"Maybe?" Vortigern inquired.
Lancelot took a moment to look deliberately at Vortigern. "He risks his life needlessly, yes. But his men love him for it. They will follow him anywhere."
"Do you?" Vortigern asked.
Lancelot looked puzzled. "Do I what?"
"Do you love him?"
Lancelot’s expression became cold and hard. "I did, yes. But the loyalty I felt to Arthur has long been dead."
Vortigern nodded and stood. "Then we will attack Banna. Gildas will accompany you."
Lancelot smiled again. "I will ready the men."
Lancelot strode out of the tent, the canvas flapping back into place to block out the bright daylight. Vortigern turned to Gildas. "What do you think of him?"
Gildas pulled aside the tent flap to view the retreating figure. "He is a magnificent warrior, and a strong leader to the men."
Vortigern joined him. "But can he kill Arthur?"
"He is a good enough fighter, yes."
"Will he?"
Gildas looked at Vortigern. "He believes that he will."
"And you?"
Gildas stared out after Lancelot for a long moment. "No. He is still Arthur’s man." He looked at Vortigern and saw a smile there.
"Good," Vortigern said and clapped him on the shoulder.
*
Lancelot lay on his bedroll and stared unseeing at the ceiling of his tent, hidden by darkness. In the morning he would ride to Banna. He had pictured seeing Arthur again constantly over the years, first dreaming he would wake one morning in his sister's hut in Sarmatia to see him riding over the hills. He had dreamt about reconciliation, of being asked to return to Britain, of asking Arthur to stay in Sarmatia, of journeying with Arthur to Rome. He’d dreamt of being friends and equals, at last.
But then Sarmatia had soured and he had begun to see what Arthur had really done to him. Arthur had turned him into a Roman soldier, filled his head with nonsense about equality and free will, but never changed what he really was: a Sarmatian slave. Arthur had forged him into a weapon, and worse, made him want to be that weapon. But he was no longer a soldier. He was a murderer – at home nowhere, welcomed nowhere, only tolerated where his sword was of use. All this he had become for Arthur, to prove his loyalty to Arthur. And when he was finally free, he found he could not turn back into the Sarmatian boy he had been.
Lancelot thought of the coming days. He would take Banna. Arthur would ride at the head of an army to fight the Saxon invasion. And Lancelot would face him on the field and look him straight in the eyes. When he killed Arthur he would finally be free from the madness that had gripped him for the past seven years. It must be so.
He closed his eyes and schooled his thoughts to stillness, trying to force himself into the sleep he needed for the coming days. This time when he faced Arthur, he would not turn away.
***
Lancelot opened his eyes and saw a white ceiling, crossed with wooden supports, bathed in the light of midday. His shoulder burned above his heart, the ache throbbing to every part of him. He turned his head on soft pillows and saw Gawain sitting by his bedside. The knight was focused on a section of bridle he was fixing with slow steady pulls of sinew thread. He was not wearing his armor, sitting only in shirt and leathers.
Lancelot had awoken in the sick room after a battle before, he could take a fair guess as to what had happened. That he was here, at the garrison, with Gawain keeping vigil spoke well of the outcome of the fight.
"Gawain," he whispered, his voice a husk.
"You’re awake," Gawain said, leaning forward with a broad smile. Gawain patted him on the cheek, then fetched the pitcher of water.
When he had sipped enough to wet his parched mouth, he smiled in return. "I take it we won."
"Yes. Saxon bodies as far as the eye could see. I would have gotten shot in the shoulder as well if I had known it would excuse me from the clean-up." Gawain joked, but Lancelot saw the smile leave his eyes. They both knew what the aftermath of a large battle could be. If he had missed all of the funeral pyres, he must have been sick a long time.
"Where is Arthur?" Lancelot asked.
Gawain looked towards the door of the chamber and his eyes grew distant. For a horrible moment, Lancelot’s blood ran cold. He had heard Arthur pray for his own death; perhaps his God had granted that wish. Gawain looked back at him and read instantly the direction of Lancelot’s thoughts. He laughed in reassurance, and placed a steadying hand on Lancelot’s uninjured shoulder.
Lancelot looked Gawain in the eye, silently asking the question that followed any fight. Gawain leaned back in his chair, his face solemn. "Tristan," he said simply.
Lancelot nodded and turned his eyes to the ceiling, hiding the shadows of tears there. It could have been worse – so much worse. Tristan would be the last of them to fall in battle, now that they had their freedom. But the few knights that had survived so long in their Roman service had grown close. For all of Tristan’s reserved aloofness, Lancelot would miss him.
"And of course we almost lost you," Gawain sniffed. "You’ve been lazing about for almost a month. I thought you were insufferable when you were awake – fevered you are a force to be reckoned with."
Lancelot smiled slightly and relaxed into the bed. He was safe – Arthur was safe – and most importantly, he was free. For now he would hold onto that. "Where is Arthur?" Lancelot asked again.
"Hard at work, I imagine. This peace between the Woads and the Britons is a tenuous thing. Arthur believes that it is necessary if they are to keep the Saxons at bay. He has had his hands full."
"He is staying, then."
"Yes," Gawain replied.
"With her." Lancelot did not mean to speak with such vitriol. But ever since that Woad had arrived, he’d watched Arthur drift away. Something had changed on their journey North of Hadrian’s Wall. Lancelot did not know what; Arthur’s devotion to his faith and to his duty had always been a point of contention between them, but always before Arthur had sought his confidences when troubled. In the days before the Battle, Lancelot watched Arthur draw further into himself, and then, when he would have come to Lancelot in the past, go to her instead. And out of that came insanity: fighting an entire Saxon army. Forging an alliance with the Woads. Staying here in Britain when he could finally return to Rome. Lancelot did not understand.
Maybe it was simple. Arthur had always been a man of ideals. Those ideals used to be Rome and his God. Now instead he had Britain. And Guinevere.
Lancelot squeezed his eyes shut. He no longer needed to look to Arthur for direction. He was free of that. But the future was a black curtain he could not part. He had never truly expected to live to see his freedom, and had no concrete plans. He could only cling to the things he knew for certain: he missed his home, he hated this place, he loved Arthur. He could put off the decision for now, but when the time came, he did not know what he would do.
Gawain laughed humorlessly. "They want to make him king, now that the Romans have left."
"King?" Lancelot said disbelievingly. "He could barely lead thirty knights. Why do they think he can lead thousands?" Despite his words, Lancelot knew what they saw in him – the same thing he always had. Arthur was born to lead, and Lancelot to follow.
*
Later, it was Bors in the chair beside him.
"What did you lose in order to have to stay here?" Lancelot asked.
Bors laughed. "Didn’t lose anything – gained some peace and quiet from Vanora’s nagging." Bors rocked the chair back on two legs. "Good thing you didn’t get killed, then. I would’ve had to name the next one after you, and I’ve always thought Lancelot was a prissy name."
"Not the way Vanora whispers it," Lancelot said and winked. "Where is Arthur?"
"Arthur is otherwise engaged," Bors emphasized the last two words. "Enjoying the fun while it lasts, I’d say. Won’t be long before he learns why I never bothered."
Bors always had a talent for telling the truth in the most abrasive manner possible. With just a few words he had painted a vivid picture that made Lancelot feel sick.
"I suppose if you’re going to be king, though, you can’t go having all your heirs be bastards," Bors continued. "They even brought in that sorcerer Merlin to perform the ceremony. Can’t say I like having all these Woads around, though. But as long as they’re not sticking arrows in anyone I like, I’ll let them be. Wouldn’t want to upset the happy couple."
Lancelot listened to Bors natter on; the man could be an incorrigible gossip.
So Arthur had married his Woad lover. How very romantic of him. Lancelot closed his eyes and feigned sleep until Bors stopped speculating, in graphic detail, on Arthur’s current activities.
*
Galahad was the most unsettling visitor to his sickbed. He did not stay seated in the chair, or bring a bit of busy work like the other two, instead pacing and glancing constantly out of the window. Lancelot did not know what could possibly be so fascinating in the courtyard. After a particularly dizzying few minutes, Lancelot asked, "Why are you still here? I would have thought you’d be halfway to Sarmatia by now."
That stopped Galahad. He shrugged and looked a little sheepish. "Well, I don’t particularly enjoy spending a few months on the road with strangers." He turned back to the window. "Bors is staying here – for obvious reasons. Gawain hasn’t said, but I can tell he’ll stay by Arthur’s side."
Lancelot smiled. Galahad had always declared his homesickness more vehemently than the others. Lancelot should have been more surprised by the current direction of the conversation, but found that he was not. They had all found camaraderie with the other knights. He was not surprised that Galahad would choose not to leave it for a land he had not seen since childhood.
"With the Romans gone, there are many fields lying fallow without an owner to tame them. Arthur has granted me some land near the garrison."
"You – a farmer?" Lancelot scoffed.
Galahad looked at him seriously. "I hope never to carry a sword again."
"That is something none of us can guarantee."
"It is a good life," Galahad said sincerely. "And now that I can choose it, I find I do not mind it here quite so much."
"Freedom makes everything sweeter," Lancelot murmured.
"And you, Lancelot. Will you stay?" Galahad asked, a note of hope in his voice.
Lancelot paused a long moment, then spoke the decision that had become inevitable. He had not seen Arthur since before the battle. In the long weeks he lay here regaining his strength it became increasingly clear that there was nothing holding him to this wretched place.
"No," he said. "I’m going home."
***
Guinevere smiled at her son. The delegation had been delayed, giving her a rare chance to relax. They sat in the courtyard at the center of Camelot, the weak spring sun baking some heat into the flagstones. Gareth held was playing with a toy Guinevere had fashioned for him. At one end of a string of sinew was a strip of hide with small diamond holes cut in it. At the other was a spur of bone, sharpened to a dull point. Gareth held the bone and swung the hide in the air, trying to skewer one of the holes. With each toss, carved fish vertebra strung along the line as weight rattled. Gareth swung it to make the bones rattle more often than he actually tried to catch the hide, but Guinevere watched him with an appraising eye. She had had such a toy herself as a child, and she could see in Gareth’s play the beginnings of deft coordination that would serve him well in battle.
Gareth caught the center hole with the bone, and giggled. Guinevere clapped in appreciation. "That is wonderful," she said in Pictish. She reached out to tweak his nose. "My little man."
"I’m not little," Gareth said, and rolled to escape Guinevere’s hand.
"Of course not. You’re a big man."
Gareth handed the toy to her. "Ma, ma. Here. You do it." Guinevere raised her eyebrows gamely and took the bone. She noticed that the hide had been painted with woad in patterns of leaves and flowers – probably Eithne’s work.
Guinevere swung the hide into the air then held perfectly still, darting out at the last moment to catch it through the middle hole. "Show off," Eithne said, stepping into the courtyard.
Gareth had already wandered off, picking up his wooden sword. This had been a gift from Gawain, carved like a miniature Excalibur. Gareth turned back to Guinevere. "Watch, Ma! Watch!" he said eagerly. Once he was sure he had his mother’s attention, he gripped the sword with both hands and swung it crazily in imitation of his father. It was almost as tall as himself, and he made sound effects to stand for the clash of steel on steel.
Eithne stood next to Guinevere, looking appraisingly at the boy. "It’s not right," she said quietly. "Playing with a Roman sword like that. It’s not proper."
Guinevere stood and straightened her skirts. "He is part Roman."
"But only part. He shouldn’t be learning the ways of those dogs," Eithne said, her wrinkled face frowning.
Guinevere looked hard at her. "My son will grow to rule Britain – the Woads, the Britons and the Romans. I will teach him to use what is strong from all this peoples and cast aside what is weak."
Eithne looked around at the stone walls of the courtyard. Guinevere followed her gaze – Roman walls, stronger but more confining than the walls of her youth. "Your Arthur," Eithne spoke, "he hides behind his walls just like the Romans did. I don’t see how he is any different than them."
"Careful," Guinevere touched her arm. "Arthur defeated the Saxons. He is the only reason we are all still alive. If his ways are sometimes hard, still we must bear them for as long as he is necessary to us."
"But the Saxons are broken," Eithne whispered. "They have been quiet these seven years. Surely Arthur has served his purpose. Why can we not look to ourselves now?"
"Merlin?" Guinevere questioned. "The Britons would never follow him. Neither would the Northern tribes." She shook her head. "Just because the Saxons are quiet does not mean we are safe. And have you forgotten how fractured we are ourselves? We are not strong enough yet as a people to stand alone."
Gareth had grown tired of swinging his sword for the moment. He placed the tip of it in a tuft of loam between the flagstones, then rested his head on the hilt and spun around in a circle. "Enough of this talk, Eithne. We have our land and our freedom, why do you ask for more?"
Eithne looked at Gareth. "You should stop him. He will make himself sick."
"No," Guinevere said. Gareth toppled, then got up blearily to start spinning again. "If he makes himself sick, he will learn never to do it again."
Guinevere looked at her son. Her people were not strong enough to stand without the Britons. But they would be.
*
The dawn was still an hour distant. The mist lay thick through the trees, making the silence complete. It was the deepest time of the night, the time when Lancelot knew a soldier should be most vigilant for attack. But as he approached Hadrian's Wall with a third of his force, he saw only one guard, drowsing along the ramparts.
Lancelot's archers soon took care of him.
Banna lay along the Wall, to the West of his old garrison. The fort was built on the top of a plateau, giving it a commanding view to the South that made attack from that quarter almost impossible. North of the wall, the forest encroached thick, but in the time of Lancelot's service, a full Roman legion had been stationed here, making attack from the Woads almost unthinkable.
Lancelot had fought here before, in his sixth year of service. A wildfire had stripped the farms surrounding Banna bare, and Arthur and his knights had been charged with escorting a supply shipment to replenish the stores. Woads had attacked not two miles east of the fort, boldly sending a full contingent south of the wall. Merlin must have thought starving out the garrison at Banna worth the risk.
Lancelot did not care for the reasons, particularly. They had fought the attack, driving the caravan towards the fort. Once they were within sight of the walls of Banna, it was over. Roman archers picked off the Woads with ease.
Now Lancelot signaled his men to throw ropes over the wall. If he could take the fort, he would be able to defend it against a much larger force. The advantage would lie with him, against Arthur. But he could not distract himself with those thoughts now.
His men silently scaled the wall, dropping over the far side into the edges of abandoned farmland. They crept forward, spreading out and disappearing into the mist. Lancelot kept himself from looking directly at the fort. They had torches lit all along the walls – a novice’s error. The light provided comfort in the night, but it meant that the guards’ night vision would be destroyed. With the darkness and the mist, they would not see Lancelot’s men approach.
Lancelot could hear his men flanking him on either side as they approached the Western wall of the fort. He stayed low to the ground, both swords at the ready. Without needing to signal, Lancelot heard the first of the lines go up on the wall. He saw the black rope curve against the deep blue of the sky, already lightening, and then a clink as the hook caught.
Then there was chaos.
A guard called out and was quickly shot. The rest of the lines went up and Lancelot sheathed one sword to climb along with his men. He could hear a cry coming from inside the fort. By keeping in the shadows of the wall, his soldiers could spring at the guards like wraiths out of the darkness. Those that leaned out to see their attackers were quickly shot, silhouetted as they were by their own torch light.
Once on the wall, Lancelot’s swords spun, striking down the men – boys – Arthur had posted here. Blood lust was an old friend, but since he had left Britain, the motions had been hollow to Lancelot. It was something he couldn’t understand – he fought for as little reason now as he had then, but fighting alongside Arthur had made everything more urgent, more important. In his years fighting with the Visigoths, he had found himself facing each battle with a cold certainty that he would triumph. Now he felt passion again. Different than before, but no less bewitching.
Lancelot cut his way to the Northern gate, opening to where the rest of his force lay behind Hadrian’s Wall. In a haze, he found himself before the oak door with a handful of his men, heaving on the handles.
When the door opened, the fight was quickly over. Gildas poured in with the Saxon army behind him. Those Britons still standing threw down their swords. Dawn was just creeping over the garrison wall. Lancelot’s first attack against Arthur’s forces was an unqualified victory.
"Gildas!" Lancelot called. "Restrain your men. If the Britons throw down their swords, take them prisoner."
The soldiers that had waited behind the Wall, listening in stillness to the sounds of battle, were being a little too enthusiastic in subduing the guards. Lancelot shook his head. But why should he expect Roman discipline here? For all that he had trained these men, at heart they lived by the Saxon code. Now that he’d seen them in battle, he could see how little his leadership changed how the Saxon army fought – and how they treated their spoils of war.
Lancelot saw a boy trip backwards over a flagstone and sprawl in front of a Saxon soldier. At first Lancelot thought he was a stable boy – he was barely old enough for stubble to darken his cheeks – but he wore the armor of a soldier. The Saxon soldier raised his axe, even though the boy was clearly no threat. He didn’t even have a sword.
"You will see bloodshed enough in time!" Lancelot yelled at the Saxon. "Now all I ask," Lancelot said, stepping under the man’s swing and grabbing his beefy fore-arm, "is for you to do as I say." He ended in a whisper, eyeing the man fiercely. The soldier balked, but lowered his weapon. "Secure the prisoners," he ordered.
The Saxon gave a nod, then turned a scornful eye past Lancelot’s shoulder at the Briton boy. He spat to the side, then strode away.
Lancelot turned back to the prisoner. His armor hung on his shoulders; he had not come into his full growth yet. Lancelot guessed by the way his hair stuck up on one side of his head that he had been asleep when the attack had started – probably the only reason he was still alive.
The boy stared at Lancelot transfixed. Lancelot admired his courage for not cowering. Then he recognized the armor the boy wore.
*
Griflet stared at the Saxon leader looming over him. The dawn light creeping over the ramparts gilded the chain mail on his shoulders, but his face was silhouetted against the pale sky. He was smaller and darker than the other Saxons, but no less terrifying.
This was Griflet’s first post, and his first battle. He was ashamed not to have fought harder against the Saxons, but there had been such noise and confusion and before he could strap on his father’s armor, his fellows were throwing down their swords. Griflet had heard of what Saxons did to their prisoners: his father had proudly fought at Badon Hill and frequently peppered his reminiscences with frightening tales of what the Saxons would have done to all of them had Arthur and his brave knights not stood against them. "They will leave no one alive that could ever carry a sword." The words rang in Griflet’s ears now just as his father had spoken them so many times. But he had no sword to defend himself – it lay forgotten in the barracks. He did not know what would happen now.
The Saxon scanned the courtyard, but did not move from where he stood. Griflet stayed perfectly still, hoping that he might be forgotten. Then the commander’s attention snapped back to him. "Did you choose to join the army, or is it what your father wished?"
The question startled Griflet. The man spoke Latin well for a Saxon, and his accent sounded almost like his father’s. "It is an honor to fight for my country," Griflet stammered, trying to summon some his father’s ferocity.
The Saxon snorted. He crouched down, and the sunlight caught his face, illuminating an angular, bearded countenance and dark eyes that Griflet recognized – though the incongruity of seeing this man, of all men, here – he could not understand it.
"What of your mother. Did she wish it?" the knight said derisively.
Griflet stared into the hardened face, remembering the man he had seen so many times at the tavern with his father. "Lancelot?" Griflet asked softly.
Lancelot smiled, though the look was cold. He stood abruptly. "Go home, Gilly. You will find no honor here."
Griflet had not heard his childhood nickname in years. He was not sure what he was meant to do. Lancelot had told him to go, but surely he could not mean…
When Griflet did not move, Lancelot spoke sharply. "I fought by your father’s side. I will not be his son’s jailer." Lancelot turned to one of his men, a blond giant clearly of Saxon blood. "Gildas! Bring this whelp a horse and send him on his way."
Gildas’s brows drew together. "Sir," he hissed.
Lancelot stepped towards him menacingly. Something passed silently between them and Gildas turned to fulfill his orders.
Griflet’s heart fluttered with hope. To have stood so close to imprisonment and death and suddenly be freed – but he looked around at the other men in his unit. Those that did not lie dead were being dragged towards the stables, caked in blood, dirt and manure. As much as he wanted it, he could not leave. It would not be right. That was the lesson behind his father’s favorite story. When he had been given his freedom, when he had every right to go, he and the other brave knights – Tristan, Gawain, Galahad and Lancelot – had stayed to fight because it was right. He swallowed. He would stay as well, then, and show his courage like his father had.
Gildas returned with a horse, which he passed to Lancelot. Lancelot in turn held the reigns out to Griflet. Griflet set his jaw, looked Lancelot steadily in the eye, and stepped back.
Before he could understand what was happening, he was on his knees with a hand tight around the back of his neck and a dagger point at his throat. Lancelot’s face was inches from his, eyes hard and unrelenting. Griflet was not sure he had ever seen anything so terrifying in his life. "When someone gives you your freedom, take it," Lancelot growled.
He held him there for a moment longer, then let him up. Griflet took the reigns of the horse and rode out of Banna, using all his courage not to look back at the shell of a man that had just set him free.
*
Lancelot stood on the Eastern rampart of Banna and watched a single horse galloping away from the gate. From this vantage he could see the countryside stretching out for miles in each direction. The sun was burning off the morning mist, turning the chill of early morning into what was sure to be a clear, crisp day. The British countryside looked more beautiful than he remembered it, verdant and lush. He could not see the mud and ice crystals ringing the puddles from this height, but he knew they were there. All that he remembered from fifteen cold springs on these shores – ice covering the water buckets in the morning, mud that soaked into the leather straps of his boots and froze against his feet, rain and snow and fog until he forgot there were more colors in the world than gray and brown. Lancelot remembered feeling the woods closing around him like a cage, encasing him in a morass of blood and dirt he might never escape. From here, faced with emerald and gold, that all seemed a passing fancy.
Griflet rode well, despite his youth. Lancelot had been surprised to see Bors’ armor on a mere boy, until he had looked more closely at the face: echoes of Bors and Vanora, a face he’d seen laughing and playful. Coming here again, of course he would face his old comrades – that was the idea, Lancelot chided himself. And Bors had so many bastards, naturally some would turn up in Arthur’s service. It made his stomach sick to think of Bors thrusting his own sons into the servitude he’d been forced to bear.
It would take some days for word to reach Arthur of what had been done this day. When he returned with his forces to retake Banna and push back the Saxon incursion once again, Lancelot would stand on this wall and watch him come. He could not turn back now. The thought left him feeling hollow, emptied of his rage.
He had struck the first blow, loosed Griflet like an arrow to fly to Camelot. Though he knew Arthur, knew his every tactic, knew every stroke of his sword, he found he could not truly anticipate what would happen when Arthur came. He felt another emotion rising to fill the void, one he had not felt since he left Sarmatia for the second time: fear.
***
tbc
A/N: For any curious, the toy Gareth is playing with is here. It’s of Native American origin; so sue me. I couldn’t find depictions of Ancient Pictish children’s games.
Read on AO3.
Note--this story was never finished and probably won't be.
Author: Ivy
Rating: PG
Warning: WIP
Summary: Arthur should have known that if Lancelot ever returned to England, it would be at the head of an invading army.
Post-movie Lancelot lives AU.
A/N: Thanks to
trinityvixen, feiran, jethrien and dotsomething for the beta.***
Prologue
Six years after the Battle of Badon Hill
*
Gildas shook the snow from his furs as he stepped into the tavern. Night fell early here. The trees, so near the Black Forest, trapped the light so that even at noon it felt like twilight. He stepped further into the room, away from the cold draught of the threshold. The scent of men was overwhelming in the close air, sweat trapped in fur and leather.
He scanned the room, noticing men gaming, drinking, and tormenting the barmaids. He had heard that a troop of Visigoths were camped here, awaiting the spring to push further East. Toward the back of the room, he spotted one man sitting alone, the area around him free from other soldiers as if his presence alone was enough to hold them at bay. This must be the man he had heard of, the mercenary responsible for more Roman defeats than any other.
Gildas approached the man cautiously. His back was turned towards the door; a dark tangled braid fell between his shoulder blades. Gildas rehearsed again to himself the speech he had been sent to give. When he had almost reached the table, the man whirled and Gildas found a bone blade pressed to his throat. The man holding the blade looked at him for a moment, then laughed. Startled, Gildas froze and tried not to look like a threat. Raising an eyebrow, the man sheathed his knife. Gildas realized why the others left him alone.
"You are Lancelot of Sarmatia?" he asked.
"I am Lancelot, yes. If you want more answer than that," he said, and raised his empty flagon.
Gildas fumbled for his purse and called a barmaid over. When Lancelot’s glass was full, he gestured magnanimously to the seat across from him. Gildas took it, studying the angular face before him. From the stories he had heard, Gildas had expected a dark barbarian, savage and barely human. He had not expected this jester. Though his hair was long, his beard was close-trimmed, Roman style. He looked more like a ladies man than a warrior.
"I am Gildas. I have been sent by Vortigern of the Saxons to find you."
"All this way for one man? A dangerous mission. There are demons that live in these woods, you know. They lure a man from the path and tear him apart. I have seen it with my own eyes," Lancelot leaned conspiratorially across the table.
Gildas had heard the tales as well, and often on the journey had imagined faces in the trees, but he was not some maid to be frightened by fairy tales.
"I have come to make you an offer," Gildas pressed on. "I have heard your services are available to the highest bidder. Vortigern would be willing to pay you to fight for him – five times what you are earning now."
Lancelot smirked. "A kingly sum! He would do better to hire a hundred common soldiers than one old knight."
"From what I have heard of you, you are worth a hundred soldiers – more in a battle. Men we have." Gildas focused intently on Lancelot, but the other man’s smile never faltered. "We need someone to train them, to lead them into battle."
"Are you preparing for war?" Lancelot inquired.
"We are always preparing for war."
Lancelot laughed. "That much I know about the Saxons. Always taking what is not yours."
Gildas spared a moment to look around the room at the Visigoth soldiers. He pursed his lips meaningfully, then looked back at Lancelot. "And your men do not?"
Lancelot remained silent, but the smile had fallen from his lips.
Gildas closed in. "You have been stationed here for months, rotting. Your men, rotting. We have heard rumors of what Theodoric is planning for his armies. But even if he moves against Rome, it could be years before you see battle again. Is that what you want – to waste away here in this cursed land? I am offering you an army. And a fight. Can you deny that you long for it?"
Lancelot looked down at the table, spinning his flagon idly along its rim. "You want me to train an army to defeat Artorius Castus?"
"Yes," Gildas breathed.
Lancelot looked back at him, his eyes narrowing. He smiled again, but this was not the charming smile of before. Now he smiled like a wolf scenting its prey. "I will come."
***
Part I
One Year Later
*
"Are you coming?" Galahad’s voice called from the courtyard.
Arthur handed his son Gareth back to his nursemaid. Gareth was barely four and favored his mother's Woad looks strongly. It was at Guinevere's insistence that they'd hired Eithne, a Woad, to nurse the boy.
Gareth made a grab for Arthur's hair, and when Arthur twisted his head out of the way, kicked him in the chest. "Now Gareth," Arthur said with no real severity, "we've talked about this before. I can not stay with you every day. That's why you must be good for Eithne."
"Oh, he's no trouble." Eithne replied and jostled him on her hip. Gareth was getting too big to be coddled so, but didn't seem to resent it yet.
She cooed to Gareth in the Woad tongue and he replied sulkily back. It had been a shock to Arthur when Gareth's first words had been in that language, but he was now equally fluent in his father's Latin as his mother's Pictish. When he grew old enough, his ability to translate would be of great use.
Gareth turned a smile to Arthur and waved. "Bye Da!"
Arthur took his leave, knowing that if he stayed any longer, Galahad would surely search him out in the nursery. He liked to visit there every morning before the business of governing began. If he had known that being King meant ten times more bureaucratic nonsense than when he had led the knights, he may never have agreed to it. But as ill-suited as he felt to the game of politics, he could not deny the duty he felt to this land and these people. And so far, the uneasy alliance forged at Badon Hill had been enough to prevent any serious threat from the Saxons. He prayed it would continue so.
Arthur headed out of the royal chambers, passing Guinevere. She bussed him on the cheek. "Remember to show every courtesy to Ninian. He may be snake, but we need his trade contacts."
"That's why I'm taking Galahad along," Arthur replied with a smile. "He will charm the merchant without any prompting from me."
"Only if there are any unattached women in the caravan. You need to find him a wife so he stops pestering my maids." It was an old joke between them – Galahad spent all his free energy looking for a wife, but for all that, had found none that suited him. He'd run completely through the women in Camelot already. Without new blood, he would surely remain a bachelor, to Bors's great amusement.
"Don't let him linger too long," Guinevere said. "If you return quickly I shall be able to use your help with the visitors from the Northern tribes." With that, Guinevere glided back into her chambers to finish pinning her hair.
It was Guinevere's wish that they have separate rooms. She came to him when she willed it, like that first night by Hadrian's Wall. Arthur thought it was to remind him that she may be wed, but she would never be tamed.
Arthur stepped into the courtyard. Though the warm weather was welcome, the attending rain had turned everything to mud, and he did not look forward to the day’s ride. Galahad was already mounted, and looking impatient. As he crossed to the stable, he noticed two other figures on horseback – Bors and Gawain.
"Are you all so interested in merchants?" Arthur asked, already suspicious. Meeting a caravan of merchants journeying from Roman territory was a chore at best. Galahad had barely agreed to join him. Arthur couldn’t imagine why the others would want to come.
Gawain looked at Galahad incredulously. "You didn’t tell him?"
Galahad smiled smugly. Bors was clearly amused by all this. "Tell me what?"
"The caravan is being guarded by a knight. A Sarmatian knight."
Arthur looked at Gawain and Bors for confirmation, though Galahad would know not to joke about this. Both the old knights smiled broadly, and Arthur could feel his own face split by the same expression.
"They say he’s dark-haired, fights with two swords…" Galahad continued.
Arthur laughed for sheer joy. "Lancelot!"
The others were laughing with him. He ran to the stables, eager to race out and meet his old friend. Lancelot had left for Sarmatia seven years ago, and in that time Arthur had not seen or heard from him. This was not surprising given the great distance, but still he missed his closest friend. He would lie awake some nights, the longing for that beloved face an almost physical pain. Arthur knew Lancelot wanted to live out his days in peace in his homeland, and he couldn’t begrudge him that, but he still wished…
Wishes wouldn’t matter now, though. It was just like Lancelot to try to sneak in without sending word ahead. Arthur galloped out of Camelot with his three knights streaking behind him, already hearing Lancelot’s welcoming laugh in his head. It didn’t matter if Lancelot was only here for a week before going home, or if he would stay longer. All that mattered was that the five of them would feast together tonight.
The four riders followed the curve of the Tyne River for a time before turning south. Once Arthur becoming King had proved more than a fleeting idea, he had been forced to see the folly of staying in the garrison at Hadrian's Wall. So close to the frontier held by the Saxons and the few Woad tribes unwilling to submit to any yoke, it was far too vulnerable a seat of government. Though it broke his heart to leave behind the quarters he had shared with his knights and the little graveyard beyond, he had moved east to another old Roman fort at Camelot. It was far enough from the Wall to be easily defensible, but close enough to maintain a hold on the frontier.
The merchants were approaching overland from the ports at the South of Britain. Arthur and his fellows crested a hill, already deep green with spring growth, and saw the caravan below them, plodding along the old Roman road. And at the front of the caravan was a lone figure, indistinct, but Arthur could clearly see the hilts of two swords strapped to his back.
Arthur turned to look at Galahad, Gawain and Bors, each in turn, then spurred his steed.
They approached the caravan from the rear, the merchants slowing to a halt when they heard approaching hooves. Arthur watched eagerly as the lone knight circled around the front wagon and approached them.
As soon as he came into full view, Arthur knew it was wrong. The man had the coloring of Lancelot, the head of black curls, the swords, but he was too tall, his armor was wrong. Even the way he moved on his horse – wrong, wrong, wrong.
Arthur dismounted and waited until the knight did the same. He spent a long moment searching the man’s face, trying to find some trace of the man he wished it to be, but even the ravages of time could not change one man into another. This was not Lancelot.
Hiding the cold feeling he felt in his stomach, Arthur smiled at the knight. "I am Arthur. I welcome you to Britain."
The man nodded briefly. "I am Surhat. I accept your hospitality."
He was too grave, Arthur decided. Lancelot was never so solemn. Arthur glanced back at the others and saw the same disappointment on all their faces. This had not been a trick of Galahad’s; if the fault was his, it was only because of his desire that the rumors he had heard meant what they all wanted them to mean. They had lost too many knights over the years, to Woads and disease and the bitter cold. These three decided to stay close to each other and to Arthur in their freedom. They had all grieved when Lancelot did not stay as well.
"Do you come from Sarmatia?" Galahad asked.
"Yes," Surhat replied, clearly puzzled.
"Tell me," Arthur asked, "have you heard of one called Lancelot there?"
"Lancelot," Surhat said with disgust. "The madman?"
Arthur felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. "No, Lancelot was a knight in the Roman army. He returned home a few years ago."
"It is the same man," Surhat said. Arthur clenched his fist, but Surhat continued unaware. "My sister married a man in that tribe, I’ve heard them speak of Lancelot. They say he rode his horse without rest across the plains, not returning for days. He had no respect for the old ways. Even the children were frightened from him."
Arthur could feel the tension radiating from the men behind him. He saw Gawain quietly take Galahad’s arm, preventing the attack his angry countenance predicted. Arthur looked back at Surhat. He wished to deny it, but what Surhat said – it sounded exactly like the man he knew. "Is he still there?" he asked quietly.
"No, mercifully. He disappeared one night, about five years ago. There are some that say he enchanted himself into a horse and rode away," Surhat shrugged. "If you ask me, he just drowned himself."
*
"Arthur," Gawain said, dismounting. Arthur continued into the stable, hands wrapped into the reigns so tightly the leather bit into his palm. The ride back had been in silence – he’d all but abandoned Gawain to handle the traders. It was only by sheer determination that Gawain and the others had managed to catch up to him before they reached Camelot.
"Arthur," Gawain trotted towards him. "We cannot know –"
Arthur threw aside the reigns, interrupting Gawain’s thoughts. "Do you believe it is not true?"
Gawain shifted his eyes from Arthur’s gaze. "Sarmatia is a large place. We cannot know… And what he told us – it was second-hand. Just idle gossip. Gossip is often far from the truth."
Arthur looked closely at Gawain’s face. His cast belied his words; he was as grieved by the news as Arthur. Arthur squeezed his eyes shut. "Even in gossip there is some sliver of truth. I –" He turned back to his horse, distracting himself by running his hands carelessly along the soft nose. "I failed him. I should not have let him go."
"Arthur," Gawain began, his tone equal parts aggravated and conciliatory. "You had no duty left to him. He was a free man. It was his choice to leave. You cannot take responsibility for the consequences of that."
Arthur rested his forehead against the horse’s neck, clinging to the reigns. The horse turned its head, jostling him. "He should not have gone alone."
Gawain remained silent for a moment, and Arthur regretted implying that Gawain and his other faithful knights should have gone with Lancelot. "If you had asked him to stay, do you think he would have?" Gawain asked quietly.
That was the heart of it, Arthur knew, and the very reason he had never spoken of it to Lancelot. "No. He was a stubborn man." Gawain chuckled. Arthur turned to look at him and continued. "He tried to hide from me how much he missed his – your – home. But he could never have been happy remaining here with me."
Gawain nodded, silently agreeing. "He made his choice of his own free will. You cannot wish anything more for him than that. What has become of him – if something has become of him – those too were his decisions to make. You cannot blame yourself for every mistake that pig-headed fool has made," Gawain said with affection. "That is too much weight for even you to bear."
Arthur nodded, but could not help feeling that he could have saved Lancelot from this. There was a moment when he could have spoken and did not. If he had had the right words, maybe Lancelot would have stayed. But even now Arthur did not know what those words were.
***
Lancelot stood with his back to the door, in front of the sick bed he had occupied for so long. He held up his leather armor before him, running his fingers over the hole made by a Saxon arrow.
Arthur stood a moment in the doorway, enjoying the sight of Lancelot, whole again. He had sat many nights by his side in the early days after the battle, sure that his closest friend would die. Even after he had awoken, the surgeon had told him the outcome was far from clear. But despite all that, Arthur could now see the fullness of Lancelot’s recovery with his own eyes. "You will need new armor," he said, stepping inside.
Lancelot turned to him, his face still wan from the remnants of fever. He smiled softly. "I hope not," he said, and laid the armor on the bed. "I was thinking of keeping it as a remembrance, so that when my grandchildren ask I can regale them with tales of Lancelot and his knights of the round table."
Arthur laughed. "Lancelot’s knights?"
"Oh, yes, and his faithful servant Arthur. A little clumsy with a sword, but his heart was in the right place."
"And will your … grandchildren … indulge the stories of an old man?"
Lancelot smirked. "That is why I’d have the armor, so that when they tire of hearing from me they could run their hands over this." Lancelot ran a finger along a score mark caused by a sword in a forgotten battle. He circled again the hole pierced just above the heart, where dried blood still clung, invisible against the black leather.
Arthur was gladdened by his friend’s cheer. He regretted that he had not been able to visit him recently – the business of building a state took all his time. He had missed this.
"But I don’t think it will fit in my packs," Lancelot continued. "It will be a luxury not to need it."
Arthur looked around the room and saw the preparations Lancelot had already made. The few possessions he had were cleared away into two saddle packs – all he would take with him of England on his journey home. Lancelot smiled at him sadly, holding his gaze, like he was waiting for something.
Lancelot shook his head and reached for one of the bags. When he lifted it, he gave a soft grunt and dropped it on the bed, his right arm reaching to massage his left shoulder.
Arthur reached to soothe it, but Lancelot caught his wrist, keeping his hand from touching him. Arthur looked at his caught hand, surprised at Lancelot’s reluctance and the hardness now in his face. "It still pains you," Arthur said.
Lancelot smiled again, tightly, and let go of Arthur’s arm. Arthur did not reach out again. "I suspect I will always know when it will rain," Lancelot said, and turned from Arthur again. "I hear congratulations are in order," he spoke to a corner of the room.
Arthur shifted slightly. Marrying Guinevere had been the right choice for the new Woad-Briton alliance, sealing their two peoples together, and he could not say that he regretted its other benefits. He had wished that Lancelot would be there to drink his health, but the knight had still been fevered, and the alliance too uncertain to wait.
"Will you tell your grandchildren of your faithful servant, Lancelot?"
"They will all grow tired of your name, I will speak it so often," Arthur smiled.
"Good."
"You leave next fortnight?" Arthur asked.
"Or sooner. It will take months to reach Sarmatia. I hope to be home before the snows." Lancelot looked at him then with a hope so sharp it hurt Arthur to see it. It was a look Arthur had witnessed many times over their years together, though Lancelot tried to hide it. It was the look Arthur knew meant Lancelot was thinking of home. Unlike his other knights, Lancelot almost never spoke of his life before conscription, but Arthur knew he held it dear.
Lancelot did not try to hide now. "Will you pray to your God that I arrive safely?" he asked, his voice thinned by an emotion Arthur could not guess at.
"You have survived fifteen years under my care. There is nothing God could place in your path now that would compare with what you have already overcome." He looked at Lancelot’s face. He’d known that face since before the first hint of a beard, when it was still rounded with childish fat. He’d watched it bloodied and bruised; he’d known it filled with joy and overcome with grief. But nothing he had seen before quite captured the expression he saw now. He felt something there, fragile and fleeting, that he must capture before it died away. It was like a rope connecting the two of them, frayed to its last cord, vibrating with tension. He had to hold onto it. "I will miss you."
Lancelot turned away and strode toward the window. The feeling of the previous moment disappeared, and Arthur could not convince himself that it had been real. It was just himself and Lancelot now, as it had always been.
Lancelot stared silently out the window until Arthur left.
***
Lancelot was on horseback, surveying his men as they ran drills in swordsmanship when Gildas found him. Lancelot remembered the fierceness of the Saxon army he had fought at Badon Hill – their sheer blood-thirsty madness. When Gildas had brought him here, far north of Hadrian ’s Wall, the previous spring, he had found an army of men equally as brutal.
But Lancelot also remembered the chaos of Badon Hill. Arthur had planned out his attack, trusting that his men would follow his orders even in the midst of battle. And it was that discipline that had allowed them to systematically wipe out a much larger Saxon force.
When he first saw the Saxon army he was to command, he knew that in battle they would rush headlong into the enemy, sloppily swinging their swords, and be killed in great numbers. He had spent all his time since then drilling into them the discipline of the Roman cavalry, and forcing them to relearn everything they thought they’d known about combat. Against Arthur’s army, and the stealthy tactics of the Woads, he would need discipline. He smiled coldly at the lines of men before him.
"They look like Romans," Gildas side, drawing his horse alongside Lancelot’s.
"There’s a reason the Romans conquered so many peoples," Lancelot replied, still critically eyeing his men.
"Yes, and there’s a reason why the Visigoths are cutting them to shreds. You should know that."
"Of course. The Romans are too staid in their ways, they do not adapt. We will not have that problem."
Gildas nodded considering, then turned to face Lancelot. "You are to return to camp. Vortigern has arrived. He wishes to speak with you."
Lancelot turned his horse back towards camp, following Gildas. They had received word some days ago that the Saxon leader would be arriving. Lancelot was eager to finally meet the man that had brought him here.
When they rode into camp, Lancelot dismounted and approached the largest tent. These were the quarters he normally took for himself, but were clearly forfeit for the duration of Vortigern’s stay. He pushed aside the flap, blinking into the dimness. Gildas strode in behind him.
The man in the center of the tent turned to face him. He wore the leather and furs of the Saxons, protection against the harsh winds of the North. But his hair was close cut and his cheeks clean-shaven. His face was angular and sharp; Lancelot saw there a biting intelligence. This was a man that would not shrink from brutality, but would not indulge in it if it were not necessary. The look in his eyes reminded Lancelot of Arthur in the moments before battle.
"Vortigern," Lancelot said, and inclined his head.
"Ah, you are Lancelot." Vortigern spread his arms in welcome. "I have heard much of you, and the wonders you have worked with the men."
Lancelot smiled. "I am only a soldier, ready for battle."
Gildas stepped into the shadows of the lantern’s light, watching the two men. "And are the men ready for battle?" Vortigern asked.
"I believe they are. But we must be cautious. We do not have enough to risk a full assault on Camelot."
"Yes," Vortigern said. "There was a time when we would not have hesitated, but I fear we have not yet recovered from our defeat at Badon Hill." Vortigern looked intently at Lancelot. "You fought in that battle against us."
"Yes," Lancelot said, wary. Though the Saxons had sought him out, he stilled feared that it was out of some foolish desire for retribution. Even though he had been living among them for almost a year, he found himself unnerved by Vortigern’s intensity.
"My brother Cerdic led that assault."
Lancelot clenched his teeth. "Your brother? Then I must tell you that I killed your nephew."
Vortigern smiled softly. "I had heard as much, but it is never good to trust rumors. It is good to know that at least some of the tales about you are true." Vortigern frowned, pacing slowly across the narrow space. "Cerdic was a fool. A brave man, truly, but far too confident. I argued against the full-scale invasion, but Cerdic never contemplated the possibility of defeat. Part of what made him so fierce in battle." He looked at Lancelot. "You will find that I am a much more patient man than Cerdic."
Vortigern sat on the sole chair placed in the tent, taking a moment to adjust his furs. "That defeat set us back generations. It decimated our military. But Cerdic did far worse. By attacking then, he forced the Britons and the Woads to join together. Against the two peoples combined, we cannot possibly hope to triumph."
Lancelot raised an eyebrow. "If you are so certain of your defeat, why are you training an army?"
Vortigern smiled and leaned forward. "The alliance between the Woads and the Britons is a weak one. You fought the Woads for many years, you must understand how many of your countrymen feel."
Lancelot pressed his lips together. "They are not my countrymen."
"Of course." Vortigern waved his hand in an absent gesture of apology. "If we harry them below the Wall, we will only force the Britons and the Woads closer together. But in the end, the alliance rests on only one man."
"Arthur."
"Yes. If we remove Arthur, the alliance will fall apart. The Britons would never accept Merlin as a leader and they have no one of their own to offer. There would be a struggle for dominance, and all the prejudices born of generations of fighting would bubble up again. We would need to do nothing but wait and they would surely go to war. The Woads will drive the Britons towards the sea. All we’d need to do is sweep in behind the Woads, and clean up the shattered remnants of that people."
"And then you would be masters of Britain."
"Exactly."
"If you can kill Arthur."
Vortigern seemed pleased Lancelot had grasped the situation so quickly. "Exactly so. But as you said, we have not the men to assault Camelot."
Lancelot smiled, the same smile Gildas had seen in the tavern near the Black Forest. "We do not need to. Let me take the men south to Banna. The fort there is easily defensible by a strong enough force, but my scouts tell me Arthur's armies are spread too thin along the frontiers. With my full force, I could take it."
"But what could you possibly hope to gain from such a venture? You might take the garrison, but you could not hope to hold it for long," Vortigern replied scornfully.
"I would not need to. Reinforcements would come, yes. And leading them would be Arthur."
Gildas could not hold his tongue any longer at this madman’s plan. "Surely Arthur would not be so foolish. He would stay safe in Camelot and send a lieutenant to crush our incursion."
Lancelot turned to Gildas, his body taught. His voice was absolutely certain. "You do not know Arthur. He always faces an enemy head on. He will come."
Vortigern nodded towards Gildas. "But why would he risk so much? Surely he must see his own importance."
Lancelot turned back to Vortigern. "He does. But he feels too keenly the duty he has towards his men. He would not send men to fight anywhere he feared to go."
Gildas snorted. "A foolhardy king."
"Maybe," Lancelot said.
"Maybe?" Vortigern inquired.
Lancelot took a moment to look deliberately at Vortigern. "He risks his life needlessly, yes. But his men love him for it. They will follow him anywhere."
"Do you?" Vortigern asked.
Lancelot looked puzzled. "Do I what?"
"Do you love him?"
Lancelot’s expression became cold and hard. "I did, yes. But the loyalty I felt to Arthur has long been dead."
Vortigern nodded and stood. "Then we will attack Banna. Gildas will accompany you."
Lancelot smiled again. "I will ready the men."
Lancelot strode out of the tent, the canvas flapping back into place to block out the bright daylight. Vortigern turned to Gildas. "What do you think of him?"
Gildas pulled aside the tent flap to view the retreating figure. "He is a magnificent warrior, and a strong leader to the men."
Vortigern joined him. "But can he kill Arthur?"
"He is a good enough fighter, yes."
"Will he?"
Gildas looked at Vortigern. "He believes that he will."
"And you?"
Gildas stared out after Lancelot for a long moment. "No. He is still Arthur’s man." He looked at Vortigern and saw a smile there.
"Good," Vortigern said and clapped him on the shoulder.
*
Lancelot lay on his bedroll and stared unseeing at the ceiling of his tent, hidden by darkness. In the morning he would ride to Banna. He had pictured seeing Arthur again constantly over the years, first dreaming he would wake one morning in his sister's hut in Sarmatia to see him riding over the hills. He had dreamt about reconciliation, of being asked to return to Britain, of asking Arthur to stay in Sarmatia, of journeying with Arthur to Rome. He’d dreamt of being friends and equals, at last.
But then Sarmatia had soured and he had begun to see what Arthur had really done to him. Arthur had turned him into a Roman soldier, filled his head with nonsense about equality and free will, but never changed what he really was: a Sarmatian slave. Arthur had forged him into a weapon, and worse, made him want to be that weapon. But he was no longer a soldier. He was a murderer – at home nowhere, welcomed nowhere, only tolerated where his sword was of use. All this he had become for Arthur, to prove his loyalty to Arthur. And when he was finally free, he found he could not turn back into the Sarmatian boy he had been.
Lancelot thought of the coming days. He would take Banna. Arthur would ride at the head of an army to fight the Saxon invasion. And Lancelot would face him on the field and look him straight in the eyes. When he killed Arthur he would finally be free from the madness that had gripped him for the past seven years. It must be so.
He closed his eyes and schooled his thoughts to stillness, trying to force himself into the sleep he needed for the coming days. This time when he faced Arthur, he would not turn away.
***
Lancelot opened his eyes and saw a white ceiling, crossed with wooden supports, bathed in the light of midday. His shoulder burned above his heart, the ache throbbing to every part of him. He turned his head on soft pillows and saw Gawain sitting by his bedside. The knight was focused on a section of bridle he was fixing with slow steady pulls of sinew thread. He was not wearing his armor, sitting only in shirt and leathers.
Lancelot had awoken in the sick room after a battle before, he could take a fair guess as to what had happened. That he was here, at the garrison, with Gawain keeping vigil spoke well of the outcome of the fight.
"Gawain," he whispered, his voice a husk.
"You’re awake," Gawain said, leaning forward with a broad smile. Gawain patted him on the cheek, then fetched the pitcher of water.
When he had sipped enough to wet his parched mouth, he smiled in return. "I take it we won."
"Yes. Saxon bodies as far as the eye could see. I would have gotten shot in the shoulder as well if I had known it would excuse me from the clean-up." Gawain joked, but Lancelot saw the smile leave his eyes. They both knew what the aftermath of a large battle could be. If he had missed all of the funeral pyres, he must have been sick a long time.
"Where is Arthur?" Lancelot asked.
Gawain looked towards the door of the chamber and his eyes grew distant. For a horrible moment, Lancelot’s blood ran cold. He had heard Arthur pray for his own death; perhaps his God had granted that wish. Gawain looked back at him and read instantly the direction of Lancelot’s thoughts. He laughed in reassurance, and placed a steadying hand on Lancelot’s uninjured shoulder.
Lancelot looked Gawain in the eye, silently asking the question that followed any fight. Gawain leaned back in his chair, his face solemn. "Tristan," he said simply.
Lancelot nodded and turned his eyes to the ceiling, hiding the shadows of tears there. It could have been worse – so much worse. Tristan would be the last of them to fall in battle, now that they had their freedom. But the few knights that had survived so long in their Roman service had grown close. For all of Tristan’s reserved aloofness, Lancelot would miss him.
"And of course we almost lost you," Gawain sniffed. "You’ve been lazing about for almost a month. I thought you were insufferable when you were awake – fevered you are a force to be reckoned with."
Lancelot smiled slightly and relaxed into the bed. He was safe – Arthur was safe – and most importantly, he was free. For now he would hold onto that. "Where is Arthur?" Lancelot asked again.
"Hard at work, I imagine. This peace between the Woads and the Britons is a tenuous thing. Arthur believes that it is necessary if they are to keep the Saxons at bay. He has had his hands full."
"He is staying, then."
"Yes," Gawain replied.
"With her." Lancelot did not mean to speak with such vitriol. But ever since that Woad had arrived, he’d watched Arthur drift away. Something had changed on their journey North of Hadrian’s Wall. Lancelot did not know what; Arthur’s devotion to his faith and to his duty had always been a point of contention between them, but always before Arthur had sought his confidences when troubled. In the days before the Battle, Lancelot watched Arthur draw further into himself, and then, when he would have come to Lancelot in the past, go to her instead. And out of that came insanity: fighting an entire Saxon army. Forging an alliance with the Woads. Staying here in Britain when he could finally return to Rome. Lancelot did not understand.
Maybe it was simple. Arthur had always been a man of ideals. Those ideals used to be Rome and his God. Now instead he had Britain. And Guinevere.
Lancelot squeezed his eyes shut. He no longer needed to look to Arthur for direction. He was free of that. But the future was a black curtain he could not part. He had never truly expected to live to see his freedom, and had no concrete plans. He could only cling to the things he knew for certain: he missed his home, he hated this place, he loved Arthur. He could put off the decision for now, but when the time came, he did not know what he would do.
Gawain laughed humorlessly. "They want to make him king, now that the Romans have left."
"King?" Lancelot said disbelievingly. "He could barely lead thirty knights. Why do they think he can lead thousands?" Despite his words, Lancelot knew what they saw in him – the same thing he always had. Arthur was born to lead, and Lancelot to follow.
*
Later, it was Bors in the chair beside him.
"What did you lose in order to have to stay here?" Lancelot asked.
Bors laughed. "Didn’t lose anything – gained some peace and quiet from Vanora’s nagging." Bors rocked the chair back on two legs. "Good thing you didn’t get killed, then. I would’ve had to name the next one after you, and I’ve always thought Lancelot was a prissy name."
"Not the way Vanora whispers it," Lancelot said and winked. "Where is Arthur?"
"Arthur is otherwise engaged," Bors emphasized the last two words. "Enjoying the fun while it lasts, I’d say. Won’t be long before he learns why I never bothered."
Bors always had a talent for telling the truth in the most abrasive manner possible. With just a few words he had painted a vivid picture that made Lancelot feel sick.
"I suppose if you’re going to be king, though, you can’t go having all your heirs be bastards," Bors continued. "They even brought in that sorcerer Merlin to perform the ceremony. Can’t say I like having all these Woads around, though. But as long as they’re not sticking arrows in anyone I like, I’ll let them be. Wouldn’t want to upset the happy couple."
Lancelot listened to Bors natter on; the man could be an incorrigible gossip.
So Arthur had married his Woad lover. How very romantic of him. Lancelot closed his eyes and feigned sleep until Bors stopped speculating, in graphic detail, on Arthur’s current activities.
*
Galahad was the most unsettling visitor to his sickbed. He did not stay seated in the chair, or bring a bit of busy work like the other two, instead pacing and glancing constantly out of the window. Lancelot did not know what could possibly be so fascinating in the courtyard. After a particularly dizzying few minutes, Lancelot asked, "Why are you still here? I would have thought you’d be halfway to Sarmatia by now."
That stopped Galahad. He shrugged and looked a little sheepish. "Well, I don’t particularly enjoy spending a few months on the road with strangers." He turned back to the window. "Bors is staying here – for obvious reasons. Gawain hasn’t said, but I can tell he’ll stay by Arthur’s side."
Lancelot smiled. Galahad had always declared his homesickness more vehemently than the others. Lancelot should have been more surprised by the current direction of the conversation, but found that he was not. They had all found camaraderie with the other knights. He was not surprised that Galahad would choose not to leave it for a land he had not seen since childhood.
"With the Romans gone, there are many fields lying fallow without an owner to tame them. Arthur has granted me some land near the garrison."
"You – a farmer?" Lancelot scoffed.
Galahad looked at him seriously. "I hope never to carry a sword again."
"That is something none of us can guarantee."
"It is a good life," Galahad said sincerely. "And now that I can choose it, I find I do not mind it here quite so much."
"Freedom makes everything sweeter," Lancelot murmured.
"And you, Lancelot. Will you stay?" Galahad asked, a note of hope in his voice.
Lancelot paused a long moment, then spoke the decision that had become inevitable. He had not seen Arthur since before the battle. In the long weeks he lay here regaining his strength it became increasingly clear that there was nothing holding him to this wretched place.
"No," he said. "I’m going home."
***
Guinevere smiled at her son. The delegation had been delayed, giving her a rare chance to relax. They sat in the courtyard at the center of Camelot, the weak spring sun baking some heat into the flagstones. Gareth held was playing with a toy Guinevere had fashioned for him. At one end of a string of sinew was a strip of hide with small diamond holes cut in it. At the other was a spur of bone, sharpened to a dull point. Gareth held the bone and swung the hide in the air, trying to skewer one of the holes. With each toss, carved fish vertebra strung along the line as weight rattled. Gareth swung it to make the bones rattle more often than he actually tried to catch the hide, but Guinevere watched him with an appraising eye. She had had such a toy herself as a child, and she could see in Gareth’s play the beginnings of deft coordination that would serve him well in battle.
Gareth caught the center hole with the bone, and giggled. Guinevere clapped in appreciation. "That is wonderful," she said in Pictish. She reached out to tweak his nose. "My little man."
"I’m not little," Gareth said, and rolled to escape Guinevere’s hand.
"Of course not. You’re a big man."
Gareth handed the toy to her. "Ma, ma. Here. You do it." Guinevere raised her eyebrows gamely and took the bone. She noticed that the hide had been painted with woad in patterns of leaves and flowers – probably Eithne’s work.
Guinevere swung the hide into the air then held perfectly still, darting out at the last moment to catch it through the middle hole. "Show off," Eithne said, stepping into the courtyard.
Gareth had already wandered off, picking up his wooden sword. This had been a gift from Gawain, carved like a miniature Excalibur. Gareth turned back to Guinevere. "Watch, Ma! Watch!" he said eagerly. Once he was sure he had his mother’s attention, he gripped the sword with both hands and swung it crazily in imitation of his father. It was almost as tall as himself, and he made sound effects to stand for the clash of steel on steel.
Eithne stood next to Guinevere, looking appraisingly at the boy. "It’s not right," she said quietly. "Playing with a Roman sword like that. It’s not proper."
Guinevere stood and straightened her skirts. "He is part Roman."
"But only part. He shouldn’t be learning the ways of those dogs," Eithne said, her wrinkled face frowning.
Guinevere looked hard at her. "My son will grow to rule Britain – the Woads, the Britons and the Romans. I will teach him to use what is strong from all this peoples and cast aside what is weak."
Eithne looked around at the stone walls of the courtyard. Guinevere followed her gaze – Roman walls, stronger but more confining than the walls of her youth. "Your Arthur," Eithne spoke, "he hides behind his walls just like the Romans did. I don’t see how he is any different than them."
"Careful," Guinevere touched her arm. "Arthur defeated the Saxons. He is the only reason we are all still alive. If his ways are sometimes hard, still we must bear them for as long as he is necessary to us."
"But the Saxons are broken," Eithne whispered. "They have been quiet these seven years. Surely Arthur has served his purpose. Why can we not look to ourselves now?"
"Merlin?" Guinevere questioned. "The Britons would never follow him. Neither would the Northern tribes." She shook her head. "Just because the Saxons are quiet does not mean we are safe. And have you forgotten how fractured we are ourselves? We are not strong enough yet as a people to stand alone."
Gareth had grown tired of swinging his sword for the moment. He placed the tip of it in a tuft of loam between the flagstones, then rested his head on the hilt and spun around in a circle. "Enough of this talk, Eithne. We have our land and our freedom, why do you ask for more?"
Eithne looked at Gareth. "You should stop him. He will make himself sick."
"No," Guinevere said. Gareth toppled, then got up blearily to start spinning again. "If he makes himself sick, he will learn never to do it again."
Guinevere looked at her son. Her people were not strong enough to stand without the Britons. But they would be.
*
The dawn was still an hour distant. The mist lay thick through the trees, making the silence complete. It was the deepest time of the night, the time when Lancelot knew a soldier should be most vigilant for attack. But as he approached Hadrian's Wall with a third of his force, he saw only one guard, drowsing along the ramparts.
Lancelot's archers soon took care of him.
Banna lay along the Wall, to the West of his old garrison. The fort was built on the top of a plateau, giving it a commanding view to the South that made attack from that quarter almost impossible. North of the wall, the forest encroached thick, but in the time of Lancelot's service, a full Roman legion had been stationed here, making attack from the Woads almost unthinkable.
Lancelot had fought here before, in his sixth year of service. A wildfire had stripped the farms surrounding Banna bare, and Arthur and his knights had been charged with escorting a supply shipment to replenish the stores. Woads had attacked not two miles east of the fort, boldly sending a full contingent south of the wall. Merlin must have thought starving out the garrison at Banna worth the risk.
Lancelot did not care for the reasons, particularly. They had fought the attack, driving the caravan towards the fort. Once they were within sight of the walls of Banna, it was over. Roman archers picked off the Woads with ease.
Now Lancelot signaled his men to throw ropes over the wall. If he could take the fort, he would be able to defend it against a much larger force. The advantage would lie with him, against Arthur. But he could not distract himself with those thoughts now.
His men silently scaled the wall, dropping over the far side into the edges of abandoned farmland. They crept forward, spreading out and disappearing into the mist. Lancelot kept himself from looking directly at the fort. They had torches lit all along the walls – a novice’s error. The light provided comfort in the night, but it meant that the guards’ night vision would be destroyed. With the darkness and the mist, they would not see Lancelot’s men approach.
Lancelot could hear his men flanking him on either side as they approached the Western wall of the fort. He stayed low to the ground, both swords at the ready. Without needing to signal, Lancelot heard the first of the lines go up on the wall. He saw the black rope curve against the deep blue of the sky, already lightening, and then a clink as the hook caught.
Then there was chaos.
A guard called out and was quickly shot. The rest of the lines went up and Lancelot sheathed one sword to climb along with his men. He could hear a cry coming from inside the fort. By keeping in the shadows of the wall, his soldiers could spring at the guards like wraiths out of the darkness. Those that leaned out to see their attackers were quickly shot, silhouetted as they were by their own torch light.
Once on the wall, Lancelot’s swords spun, striking down the men – boys – Arthur had posted here. Blood lust was an old friend, but since he had left Britain, the motions had been hollow to Lancelot. It was something he couldn’t understand – he fought for as little reason now as he had then, but fighting alongside Arthur had made everything more urgent, more important. In his years fighting with the Visigoths, he had found himself facing each battle with a cold certainty that he would triumph. Now he felt passion again. Different than before, but no less bewitching.
Lancelot cut his way to the Northern gate, opening to where the rest of his force lay behind Hadrian’s Wall. In a haze, he found himself before the oak door with a handful of his men, heaving on the handles.
When the door opened, the fight was quickly over. Gildas poured in with the Saxon army behind him. Those Britons still standing threw down their swords. Dawn was just creeping over the garrison wall. Lancelot’s first attack against Arthur’s forces was an unqualified victory.
"Gildas!" Lancelot called. "Restrain your men. If the Britons throw down their swords, take them prisoner."
The soldiers that had waited behind the Wall, listening in stillness to the sounds of battle, were being a little too enthusiastic in subduing the guards. Lancelot shook his head. But why should he expect Roman discipline here? For all that he had trained these men, at heart they lived by the Saxon code. Now that he’d seen them in battle, he could see how little his leadership changed how the Saxon army fought – and how they treated their spoils of war.
Lancelot saw a boy trip backwards over a flagstone and sprawl in front of a Saxon soldier. At first Lancelot thought he was a stable boy – he was barely old enough for stubble to darken his cheeks – but he wore the armor of a soldier. The Saxon soldier raised his axe, even though the boy was clearly no threat. He didn’t even have a sword.
"You will see bloodshed enough in time!" Lancelot yelled at the Saxon. "Now all I ask," Lancelot said, stepping under the man’s swing and grabbing his beefy fore-arm, "is for you to do as I say." He ended in a whisper, eyeing the man fiercely. The soldier balked, but lowered his weapon. "Secure the prisoners," he ordered.
The Saxon gave a nod, then turned a scornful eye past Lancelot’s shoulder at the Briton boy. He spat to the side, then strode away.
Lancelot turned back to the prisoner. His armor hung on his shoulders; he had not come into his full growth yet. Lancelot guessed by the way his hair stuck up on one side of his head that he had been asleep when the attack had started – probably the only reason he was still alive.
The boy stared at Lancelot transfixed. Lancelot admired his courage for not cowering. Then he recognized the armor the boy wore.
*
Griflet stared at the Saxon leader looming over him. The dawn light creeping over the ramparts gilded the chain mail on his shoulders, but his face was silhouetted against the pale sky. He was smaller and darker than the other Saxons, but no less terrifying.
This was Griflet’s first post, and his first battle. He was ashamed not to have fought harder against the Saxons, but there had been such noise and confusion and before he could strap on his father’s armor, his fellows were throwing down their swords. Griflet had heard of what Saxons did to their prisoners: his father had proudly fought at Badon Hill and frequently peppered his reminiscences with frightening tales of what the Saxons would have done to all of them had Arthur and his brave knights not stood against them. "They will leave no one alive that could ever carry a sword." The words rang in Griflet’s ears now just as his father had spoken them so many times. But he had no sword to defend himself – it lay forgotten in the barracks. He did not know what would happen now.
The Saxon scanned the courtyard, but did not move from where he stood. Griflet stayed perfectly still, hoping that he might be forgotten. Then the commander’s attention snapped back to him. "Did you choose to join the army, or is it what your father wished?"
The question startled Griflet. The man spoke Latin well for a Saxon, and his accent sounded almost like his father’s. "It is an honor to fight for my country," Griflet stammered, trying to summon some his father’s ferocity.
The Saxon snorted. He crouched down, and the sunlight caught his face, illuminating an angular, bearded countenance and dark eyes that Griflet recognized – though the incongruity of seeing this man, of all men, here – he could not understand it.
"What of your mother. Did she wish it?" the knight said derisively.
Griflet stared into the hardened face, remembering the man he had seen so many times at the tavern with his father. "Lancelot?" Griflet asked softly.
Lancelot smiled, though the look was cold. He stood abruptly. "Go home, Gilly. You will find no honor here."
Griflet had not heard his childhood nickname in years. He was not sure what he was meant to do. Lancelot had told him to go, but surely he could not mean…
When Griflet did not move, Lancelot spoke sharply. "I fought by your father’s side. I will not be his son’s jailer." Lancelot turned to one of his men, a blond giant clearly of Saxon blood. "Gildas! Bring this whelp a horse and send him on his way."
Gildas’s brows drew together. "Sir," he hissed.
Lancelot stepped towards him menacingly. Something passed silently between them and Gildas turned to fulfill his orders.
Griflet’s heart fluttered with hope. To have stood so close to imprisonment and death and suddenly be freed – but he looked around at the other men in his unit. Those that did not lie dead were being dragged towards the stables, caked in blood, dirt and manure. As much as he wanted it, he could not leave. It would not be right. That was the lesson behind his father’s favorite story. When he had been given his freedom, when he had every right to go, he and the other brave knights – Tristan, Gawain, Galahad and Lancelot – had stayed to fight because it was right. He swallowed. He would stay as well, then, and show his courage like his father had.
Gildas returned with a horse, which he passed to Lancelot. Lancelot in turn held the reigns out to Griflet. Griflet set his jaw, looked Lancelot steadily in the eye, and stepped back.
Before he could understand what was happening, he was on his knees with a hand tight around the back of his neck and a dagger point at his throat. Lancelot’s face was inches from his, eyes hard and unrelenting. Griflet was not sure he had ever seen anything so terrifying in his life. "When someone gives you your freedom, take it," Lancelot growled.
He held him there for a moment longer, then let him up. Griflet took the reigns of the horse and rode out of Banna, using all his courage not to look back at the shell of a man that had just set him free.
*
Lancelot stood on the Eastern rampart of Banna and watched a single horse galloping away from the gate. From this vantage he could see the countryside stretching out for miles in each direction. The sun was burning off the morning mist, turning the chill of early morning into what was sure to be a clear, crisp day. The British countryside looked more beautiful than he remembered it, verdant and lush. He could not see the mud and ice crystals ringing the puddles from this height, but he knew they were there. All that he remembered from fifteen cold springs on these shores – ice covering the water buckets in the morning, mud that soaked into the leather straps of his boots and froze against his feet, rain and snow and fog until he forgot there were more colors in the world than gray and brown. Lancelot remembered feeling the woods closing around him like a cage, encasing him in a morass of blood and dirt he might never escape. From here, faced with emerald and gold, that all seemed a passing fancy.
Griflet rode well, despite his youth. Lancelot had been surprised to see Bors’ armor on a mere boy, until he had looked more closely at the face: echoes of Bors and Vanora, a face he’d seen laughing and playful. Coming here again, of course he would face his old comrades – that was the idea, Lancelot chided himself. And Bors had so many bastards, naturally some would turn up in Arthur’s service. It made his stomach sick to think of Bors thrusting his own sons into the servitude he’d been forced to bear.
It would take some days for word to reach Arthur of what had been done this day. When he returned with his forces to retake Banna and push back the Saxon incursion once again, Lancelot would stand on this wall and watch him come. He could not turn back now. The thought left him feeling hollow, emptied of his rage.
He had struck the first blow, loosed Griflet like an arrow to fly to Camelot. Though he knew Arthur, knew his every tactic, knew every stroke of his sword, he found he could not truly anticipate what would happen when Arthur came. He felt another emotion rising to fill the void, one he had not felt since he left Sarmatia for the second time: fear.
***
tbc
A/N: For any curious, the toy Gareth is playing with is here. It’s of Native American origin; so sue me. I couldn’t find depictions of Ancient Pictish children’s games.
Read on AO3.
Note--this story was never finished and probably won't be.