RESPITE
BY
GAFFER’S GIRL
Arthur knew as the Commander he should be paying more attention to the route Tristan had selected. Between the pitch black of a cloud filled night sky, the sloppy wet of drizzling rain and the fact that he was occupied bracing a listless and gravely wounded Lancelot on their shared horse; Arthur had lost track of where they were headed. He trusted Tristan with their lives, but he was the Commander and he knew he should be more aware.
Vaguely, the landmarks crossed his mind; the gnarly, fossilized oak by crook in the river; the stacked up ruins of some ancient woad ritual site; a rocky outcropping that resembled a lion and indicated the narrow crevice that allowed one horse astride and led to a wider pathway. . . Lancelot groaned and slumped over sideways. Taken by surprise Arthur was late in reacting; legs straining against the saddle as he grappled with the reins and tightened the grip on his knight . . . his friend, in an attempt to keep them both from toppling off the horse. Just as suddenly, he sensed Bors’ presence on his left hefting Lancelot back up into the saddle. At the same moment, Arthur felt the reassuring presence of Dagonet’s hand grasping onto his cloak’s collar and pulling Arthur back upright. Once they were resettled in the saddle, Arthur knew for Lancelot’s sake, he needed to pay attention to his most important duty; keeping Lancelot alive. Arthur stilled the thoughts in his mind. “Just become the follower. Let Tristan lead us to safety . . . to respite.”
Soon after, Arthur could smell the change of terrain rather than see it. No longer were the pungent, rotting undertones of the thick forest present, instead it was the aroma of grass . . . grass, sweet and fresh in the aftermath of the now ending rain. Evidently, Lancelot had also noticed the change as Arthur could feel him taking deeper breathes and relaxing slightly under his hand. It was then that Tristan chose to stop. Arthur could hear a brook trickling nearby and there would also be wood close at hand for a fire. As always with Tristan, it was the perfect place to make camp. The only thing that would satisfy Arthur more would be for the whole group of them to be in the safe confines of the fort.
Tristan immediately set to work clearing an area of rocks and twigs and then smoothing a bedroll on the ground for Lancelot. Bors helped Arthur slide Lancelot off the horse into Dagonet’s waiting arms. Lancelot gasped as his ribs shifted and the infected knife wound in his side stretched. Lancelot’s pale lips pressed tightly together against any articulation of his pain. Worrying the inside of his own lip, Arthur looked away for a moment to gain control of his emotions. Galahad was walking closely beside Gawain as they tethered their horses. Gawain. . . oh dear God! Arthur had forgotten that Gawain had also been injured in their battle . . . was it nearly two days ago now? Gawain’s injury was minor, but minor wounds have a way of becoming much worse in this damp.
Arthur was momentarily caught in a quandary. He wanted to see that Lancelot was settled properly, but as Commander he knew he had duties to attend to while setting up camp. One of his duties was to check on all his wounded knights. Arthur dismounted, didn’t bother to tether Valiant as he knew the stallion wouldn’t budge without Arthur’s order. As he walked toward Gawain, he heard Lancelot’s voice utter a soft, Sarmatian curse. Arthur glanced in direction of the voice. He could see Lancelot lying on the bedroll with Tristan leaning closer to him to listen carefully to the whispered words. Tristan smiled slightly. Tristan . . . smiled, Arthur was shocked by the rare, visible show of emotion and then he watched as Tristan gently patted Lancelot’s shoulder before leaving to check the camp’s perimeter. Dagonet took Tristan’s place kneeling next to Lancelot with his potions and bandages. Arthur knew at this point that Dagonet could do more to help Lancelot than he could, so Arthur set aside his concerns to deal with his duties.
Gawain was actually recovering easily from the wound on his arm and wanted to take his turn at guard duty. Galahad of course, protested and wanted to take his shift. Gawain complained of hovering and Arthur arbitrated. Arthur set the watches and allowed Gawain the second watch after several hours of rest which seemed to appease Galahad as he had the same watch. Arthur moved on to deal with more details of setting up camp: checking supplies, making sure a fire was started, getting a report from Tristan, before heading over to check on Lancelot’s condition.
By the time Arthur made it over to him, Dagonet had re-bandaged the wound and given Lancelot herbs for pain, fever and to help him sleep. Arthur was slightly disappointed and he reckoned selfishly so that Lancelot was nearly asleep. As Lancelot mumbled a few last words before dropping off to unconsciousness, Arthur was reminded that whenever Lancelot was severely ill, he reverted to Sarmatian. Not just the general language which Arthur might have had a chance at understanding. No, that wouldn’t work for Lancelot, he had to be his ornery self and speak in the unusual and rare dialect of his tribe.
Arthur looked to Dag who at first looked away and then Arthur gave him what Arthur felt was a more commanding glare which Dag just shrugged at, finally Arthur changes his expression to one of pleading. Dag simply stated, “He said ‘home’.”
Quizzically, Arthur repeats, “Home?”
Tristan answers, “You don’t remember?” Arthur willed his body not to jump in shock. Where had he come from? Sometimes, Tristan was far too quiet for Arthur’s preferences. At least with Lancelot, Arthur knew when he was coming. Come to think of it, everybody did.
So, they had been here before. No wonder it seemed familiar, but there were far too many places they had been and Arthur still couldn’t figure out the significance of this particular spot. Why Tristan had taken such great pains to lead them here when any number of campsites would have suited their purposes, Arthur couldn’t comprehend. Arthur cleared his thoughts and changed the subject. Turning to Tristan, Arthur stated “He said something that . . . that . . . made you smile.”
“He reminded me that he won our bet about this place. I told him he could collect when we got back to fort.” Nodding at Dag, Tristan disappeared as quickly as he arrived and left Arthur still confused.
“The bet?”
Dag simply answered, “Lancelot told him bringing him here covered it.”
Now Arthur really didn’t know what to think. Rubbing the tips of his fingers across his forehead, Arthur tried to fit the pieces together.
“Take a walk over there. You’ll remember.” Dag turned back to crushing more herbs with his pestle.
Arthur was torn. He wanted to stay with Lancelot, but he could tell he would get no further answers from Dag or Tristan. At least, not until they were satisfied that he had tried everything in his power to remember on his own. They would likely stick close to Lancelot, not allowing him a moment to question Lancelot or any of the other knights about the significance of this place.
Walking by the edge of the water had not helped, neither had throwing pebbles, praying or sitting on a nearby boulder, it wasn’t until he slipped and nearly fell into the water that Arthur recalled the day that they had been here last. How could he have not recognized this of all the places they had been? The only explanation was that they must have arrived from the opposite direction and it had been day.
It had been a gloriously sunny Spring day or at least that is what it seemed like after suffering through one of the harshest winters
They had been riding patrol for several days, one of their first patrols as a unit under Arthur’s command. They had spotted no enemy . . . Woads . . . as the Sarmatians had taken to calling the native warriors due to the blue dye coloring their skin, and Tristan reported that there were none within a day’s journey of them. Arthur wasn’t sure how Tristan found that out, but the reports left by previous commanders stated to trust Tristan’s instincts. Since the Romans were notorious for never trusting a Woad, a
After hearing Tristan’s report, Galahad was the first to complain. It was “sweltering . . . humid. . . . well, certainly too hot for armor and since there weren’t any Woads” . . . Galahad was rather whiny back then. Arthur tried to ignore him, but the other knights began to add their voices to his and then they reached this niche in the woods. It looked, smelled and felt unlike anywhere else he had seen in
Arthur halted his horse and scanned the faces of his Sarmatian troops. A mix of emotions - resentment, disappointment and hope were splashed across the faces of his men. A glance at Tristan and Lancelot; faces two blank masks, the eyes of one revealed nothing, the eyes of the other . . . well, every emotion possible. At that moment, Arthur knew a correct decision would be vital to the future of his command, perhaps even his life. The reports Arthur had read mentioned the unexplained disappearances of Roman legionnaires who had run afoul of the Sarmatians. It was not so much that Arthur was intimidated by this as it was that he was cautious. Arthur declared they would stop and set camp early to rest the horses. No sense allowing anyone to say he gave into whining. Guards would be rotated, but the men would be allowed to remove their armor and take advantage of the water.
Arthur had never seen his men move so quickly. Before he could give the order, guards were set by themselves. Or as Arthur suspected, by Lancelot. And Arthur found he had nothing to do but strip down to his undergarments and take a swim. He floated in the water off to the side away from the men and watched as they swam and splashed and dunked each other. Lancelot was orchestrating the play while somehow managing not to be involved. Bedivere pushing Galahad under water, Gareth squirting water from his mouth at Kay and plotting an attack with Gareth on Bors and then letting Gaheris and Gawain carry out the plan. All the while, Lancelot stayed on the sidelines, a slight sneer the only indication that he took pleasure from his plans.
“Ah! Just as the reports said,” Arthur thought. “Something to watch out for”. Former commanders had warned that Lancelot was behind most of the pranks and plots for revenge, but they could never prove it. Most of the Sarmatians respected Lancelot’s intelligence too much to turn him in and those who didn’t . . . well, Lancelot was an expert at coercion, no denying that. And then, there was that issue of Sarmatian loyalty, another fact to which there was no defense.
As he watched, Arthur was struck that he was no longer seeing battle hardened warriors, but young boys cavorting, just as they should be. The heavy mantle of indenture and survival gave them a temporary reprieve. It seemed almost as if they were transported back to the land of their birth and this was an example of the life of freedom they shared there. Arthur was nearly the same age as the eldest and he could just barely be considered a man. Most of them were mere youths and this place allowed them to be as carefree and untroubled by their burdens as they should be, except for Tristan, but Arthur doubted he was ever lighthearted even in his homeland. And then there was Lancelot. To Arthur, it seemed as though Lancelot desired to partake in the frivolity, but couldn’t or wouldn’t allow himself the release, much like Arthur himself. And none of the other Sarmatians dared to challenge this self-imposed prison.
Even later when he thought about it, Arthur was not sure how it happened. One moment, he was floating in the water’s current observing his knights and the next; he was dragging Lancelot from his seat on the bank and into the water, dunking him thoroughly. Arthur could never be sure, but he recalled giving an extra shove to Lancelot’s head just before he came sputtering to the surface. Lancelot’s face was no longer the blank mask with emotions teeming beneath; the emotions rippled across his face’s surface; annoyance, indignation, petulance and for just a split second with a twelve year old’s delight from the coolness of the water and play. He almost . . . almost dunked Arthur in turn and then all emotions were quickly shuttered by a nearly angelic expression when Lancelot recognized the perpetrator of his dunking. All the Sarmatians in the water stopped stock still. There was no sound, but the trickle of water as Lancelot took a few steps toward the bank, sluicing water and mud off his body.
“Castus.”
“My apologies, I don’t know what . . .”
“Surely, you lost your footing on the bank. No harm.”
Lancelot held his empty hands out in a gesture of reconciliation, but his eyes told a contrasting story; Arthur was in for it. When it would come was unknown, that there would be payback was a certainty. Lancelot moved away from the brook toward the nearby grassy glen, Gareth and Kay quickly in pursuit, as Arthur moved on to the bank to dry off. Every advantage the decision to stop and rest in this place had given him was now destroyed in a moment of rash behavior. Arthur vowed from here on out to not allow himself to be so irrational ever again.
Throughout the afternoon, Arthur observed Lancelot and waited for the revenge he knew was to come. The revenge he could in fact see coming as the Sarmatians took their turns relaying messages from Lancelot to whoever would execute the plan. But Arthur was more engrossed in what was seeing happen to Lancelot between those visits. In those moments, Lancelot would brush his hands through the grass, his mind and body caught up in a reverie and there, he was that twelve year old still living free on the plains.
Arthur knew the devastation of losing a parent, after this rare glimpse into the lives of his knights; he had a new comprehension of the loss his knights experienced. The loss of home. Arthur vowed he would watch over them, be their protector and see that they made it through their years of service to return home.
The revenge came in the form of a dunking, more accurately a near drowning, with Arthur fully clothed. Lancelot was on guard duty and no where in sight. Bors was the one who “accidentally” blundered into him and it was Gareth whose hand slipped and let Arthur fall back into the water along with Arthur’s only dry cloak. Arthur handled it all graciously. He had to, if he didn’t he had no chance of regaining their trust. Not that that was likely.
Shivering, Arthur crouched near to the fire, rubbing his hands together, trying to force some warmth into them. That was when Lancelot showed up. He gave no sign that he had any knowledge of the plot. In fact, he seemed quite amiable.
“Commander Castus, you look rather cold for such a warm night.”
“I’m afraid I am a bit chilled . . . and wet” Arthur tried to pull his still damp cloak around him.
“You Romans and your baths. Next time, I suggest taking your swim during the day early enough in the day for the sun to warm you.” Lancelot turned away from Arthur.
“And perhaps next time I will do it without my clothes.”
“That might be best.” Lancelot grasps a jug warming by the fire and offers it to Arthur. “Drink some of this. It will warm you.” Lancelot wiggles the jug in front of him.
Arthur while not sure he wants to take the proffered drink knows that he should. He hesitantly grabs hold of it. “What is it?”
“Sarmatian tea. Don’t look so worried, Castus. It will strengthen you. Won’t it Bors?”
“A double dose everyday.” Bors pats his ample stomach as he leers at Arthur.
Sarmatian tea. Arthur is sure it has the blood of Sarmatian horses in it among other things. He lifts the jug to his mouth and takes a sip. The taste is bitter, acrid, but still with the taste of fermented grapes and a bit of twigs and dirt. He manages to swallow it.
“You will have to take a much larger swallow if you expect to finish the jug before morning or can it be that you don’t like our tea?” Narrowing his eyes, Lancelot asks the last in a viperous manner.
“I suppose it is an acquired taste.” Arthur pauses. The air is filled with held breath as all wait for Lancelot’s response. But, Arthur continues first. “One that I shall endeavor to acquire.” Arthur takes a large swig and chokes it down.
Lancelot quickly stands and Arthur thinks he has insulted the man. Slapping his thigh with his hand, Lancelot’s lips begin to twitch and he starts to laugh, not a chuckle, but a true belly laugh. He shakes his head and walks away with Gareth and Gaheris following. Arthur drank a few more swallows before feeling too ill to continue. He fell asleep to the sound of Lancelot and his fellow knights foreign words and laughter.
Over the years, Arthur knew it was that day that changed everything, though he never knew for sure why. Lancelot quit waging his battle for control against him. At least most of the time. And he became a most able second. His skills at subterfuge and planning had come in quite handy over the years and his loyalty was never doubted. Lancelot’s loyalty is what got him into this mess and made him protect Arthur at the risk of his own life. “Forsook his life for me.” Arthur shook himself to dislodge the thought from his head.
This was a place of healing or at least that’s what the Sarmatians thought. Now the periodic arguments that arose between Lancelot and Tristan made sense. Lancelot insisting that Tristan remembered and Tristan vehemently denying that he remembered. So, Lancelot had been right all along. Arthur hefted himself up from the rock he’d been sitting on for the past hour. His legs were stiff. Many years had passed since the last time they were there and his body felt those years. Not likely he could catch Lancelot off guard these days. Arthur smiled to himself and headed back toward the campfire.
“How is he doing?” Dag finished placing a wet rag on Lancelot’s forehead and then glanced up at Arthur.
“Healing.”
“I remembered . . . that day.” Arthur wasn’t sure what else to say. He knelt next to Lancelot touching his face to find that indeed his fever was reduced and Lancelot was breathing more easily.
“He had plans for you that day, had we not stopped to rest.”
“Plans?”
Startled, Arthur scrutinized Dag who repacked some in his healing pouch before continuing. “He thought your sense of duty to
“But I never . . .”
“He convinced us your devotion to
Arthur was dumbfounded. He looked away to gather his thoughts and then back down at Lancelot before responding. “What changed his mind?” He asked, looking Dag in the eyes.
“He said you treated him as one would treat a kinsman. He knew you would not risk a kinsman needlessly.”
Pressing his fingers against his eyes, Arthur tried to take it all in. Removing his hand from his face, he reached once again toward Lancelot. “All I have . . .”
Dag caught hold of Arthur’s arm, “And he was right, Arthur. You haven’t.”
“No guilt, Arthur.” Lancelot barely muttered. “And quiet, I need to rest.”
As Lancelot slipped back into the land of dreams, Arthur settled down next to him. Propping himself against a tree stump, Arthur tried to keep watch through the night. In the morning, when he woke up curled around the tree trunk, Lancelot was sitting upright and eating a broth prepared by Dag. For just a moment, Arthur wondered if it was Sarmatian tea.
They traveled back to the fort that day. Lancelot was so much improved that Arthur really began to wonder if that place had been enchanted as the Sarmatians claimed.
Three years later, on that day at Badon Hill when Arthur held Lancelot in his arms, he mourned the fact that he could not take Lancelot back to that place of healing, home, a place of respite. Arthur believed that had they gone there somehow Lancelot would have lived on. But with Tristan dead, he no longer had a guide and Arthur knew no matter what he accomplished as King that he had failed his kinsmen.
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