Chapter 6-North of the Wall

Tristan gazed at the landscape around them. They were in a farmer’s field behind a barn and a small house. It seemed as though the house has long since been abandoned. Far off on the horizon loomed the forest in which the Picts roamed and ruled. Launcelot reined his horse to a stop next to Tristan. “I thought we were supposed to be meeting an army, not trees and an old farm.”

“Perhaps they are afraid,” Tristan answered as he watched the commander of the Roman infantry and cavalry that the Sarmatians had accompanied.

“Artorius!” the man called out.

Arthur nudged his horse forward. “Petrucles, my good friend. It has been years.”

“That it has, Artorius. So these are the new Sarmatian Knights?”

“Yes, There is the blood of a great and legendary fighter in each and every one of them.”

“They are all so young.”         

“My youngest man is thirteen and my oldest is thirty-two.”

“Such a range. I would hate to put ones so young in danger of death.”

“They talked in tones so low that even Tristan, who was only five paces away, could not hear them. Tristan patted Eshtaol’s neck as she stamped her feet impatiently. He gazed out to the horizon and noticed movement in the trees. He strained his vision, trying to better. It was a Pict.

Arthur turned back to his men as Petrucles rode off. “Caleb, Balin, Balan, Tor, Uwaine, Lionel, Dinadan, Amant, Pedivere, Steven, Uther, Bedivere, Palti, Ector, Hadad, and Sebastian, string your bows and find a suitable place to hide. You’ll be the cover fire along with the rest of Petrucles’s archers. No matter what orders are given, do not move from your spots unless you are given other instruction by either me or another of the knights.” The sixteen moved out to do as they were told. “As for the rest you, prepare for combat.”

Tristan pushed his horse forward. “Arthur, they are expecting us to venture into the woods.”

“We will not. We will meet them in this field, as planned. Thank you for that, Tristan.”

Tristan backed Eshtaol to her original place beside Lavaine.

“How did you know?” Lavaine asked, his face confused.

“How did I know what?”

“How did you know that the Picts want us to look for them in the woods?”

“One of them, most likely a scout, just came out of the woods, noted our position and returned to whomever his commander is.”

“But that could mean anything.”

“It could, except for the fact that if we were to meet them on this plain, as their challenge stated, then they would already be waiting for us, weapons drawn.”

Lavaine shook his head. “Is there anything you can’t do?”

Tristan shrugged and noticed that Arthur was talking with Petrucles in hushed, urgent tones. Bors, on the other side of Tristan, shifted impatiently in the saddle. Beside him sat Dagonet, his expression as blank as ever, completely unaware, it seemed, to his father’s anxious mood. Beside Lavaine was Launcelot, his eyes fixed on the woods.

“Cowards.” Tristan heard him say to Gawaine. “Why do they not come out and fight us? They were the ones who challenged us, not the other way around.”

“They are at an advantage in the woods and they know it. They take us for fools-”

Tristan took his attention away from their conversation when he heard someone call his name. The call came from Arthur and he rode over to him.

“Tristan is one of my best knights. He will be able to handle this,” Arthur was saying.

“Artorius, I do not doubt your judgment and you know that; but he is just a boy and fresh out of training as well. I cannot endanger him.”

“Tristan, how old are you?” Arthur asked.

“I will be fifteen in the twelfth month.” Tristan did not see Arthur’s point.

“He is but a boy! My point is proven.” Petrucles wore a triumphant smile.

“Two months ago, when Tristan was first put under my command, I tested his abilities. He bested me in a duel and proved himself to be ahead of the other knights. I could hardly teach him anything other than what his tutor, who was obviously not a Roman, did not teach him of the Roman way.”

Petrucles seemed to ponder this information for about five minutes. “You beat Artorius in a duel?” Tristan nodded. “Then you have achieved a feat I have been trying to accomplish since our training. I give you my consent, Artorius.”

Arthur explained to Tristan what he was to do and handed him a white banner on a pole. Tristan rode forward, the banner fluttering in the air that passed by him. He waited for a few minutes before three Picts emerged from the forest. Tristan threw the flag down on the ground and waited for their approach.

“What do you want?” asked one of them who was wielding an ax.

“We want you to keep the words of your own challenge and meet our forces on this field as intended.”

The man grunted. “I don’t recall that being part of the challenge.”

“Then perhaps you hide out in your woods and trees because you are cowards when it comes to fighting in the open.” Tristan had dealt with these types before but here, he did not need princely words. He merely needed cunning and the right words to provoke them.

“Or perhaps you are the ones who are afraid to fight among the trees.”

Tristan pretended to think for a minute. “Sarmatians are not afraid to fight in any condition although you would have the advantage because of whatever traps you have waiting for us in there.”

“Sarmatians?” The man’s voice held a hint of nervousness.

“Yes; I am of the Sarmatian Knights under the command of Lucius Artorius Castus.”

“Arthur?” another man asked, fear on his face.

“You would call him that, wouldn’t you? It just happens to be what we Sarmatians call him as well.”

The man thrust his spear in Tristan’s face but the boy didn’t even flinch. “We are not afraid of a mere mite of a boy like you or a Briton turned against his own people.”

“Well then, if you are not afraid, meet us in the intended place. If not, we will consider your challenge inadequate and we will return to Hadrian’s Wall where we are need by both the Roman people and the Britons.” He looked Ax Man straight in the eyes, waiting for a response.

The man’s eyes darted back and forth, knowing they had foiled their own plan with their words. “Fine. You will be met on the field.” He turned and motioned his men away.

Tristan turned Eshtaol and rode back to Arthur. “They will meet us.”

“Well done, Tristan. Thank you.”

Tristan nodded and took his place once more. “Get ready for your fight, Bors.”

“Hmm. I was getting inpatient.” Bors drew his ax.

Far off, the Picts came from the forest wielding swords, maces, clubs, axes and bows. Tristan shifted nervously in the saddle. He had always fought battles for his uncle against one to five men, but never had he fought a battle like this. His heart began to pound inside his chest louder than a blacksmith’s hammer on hot metal and he hoped none of the others could hear it, not after the compliments Arthur had given him. Tristan made a face of pure shock when he saw that a woman stood at the front of the Picts as their commander.

“A woman?” he asked Bors.

“Both men and women fight for the Picts just like the Sarmatians. They have more in common with us than we’d like.”

The woman only hesitated for a moment before having her archers fire off a volley of arrows. Tristan started to pull his horse back but Lavaine stopped him.

“They’re out of range.”

Tristan looked back and saw that even Arthur had moved back. “No, they’re not!” He pushed Eshtaol back and grabbed Lavaine’s horse’s bridle just as the arrows rained down and landed right where they had been seconds before.

“Thanks,” said a breathless Lavaine.

Tristan strung his bow and fitted four arrows to the string. He loosed them on Arthur’s command to return fire and watched as countless charging Picts fell to the ground. He fired off three more arrows before the troops charged forward to meet their enemies. He fired as they rode, dropping man after man before their swords even crossed. Then, as they drew closer, he put his bow in his empty quiver and drew his dao. He cut a man’s head from his shoulders and continued through the fray, stabbing and slicing until he reached a place where he could safely dismount. He did so and then smacked Eshtaol on the rump, sending her running just far enough away from the battle. Then he turned and faced the man closest to him. He brought him down in two swift movements then moved on to the next. He continued on this way for the next two hours. Chiang, his sword master, had taught him that fighting in a battle was a dance where the steps were all of his own choice. He followed this now, his movements swift and graceful. At one point, he found himself fighting with Launcelot at his back and he, in turn, protecting Launcelot’s. But soon they broke away from each other. Another time he saw Bors get struck on the top of his head with the butt of a spear and he was about to rush and help his companion when Dagonet pierced the man through the back with his broadsword. Tristan sighed in relief and moved on, this time rushing to Gawaine’s aide.

 

Henry and Charles fought back to back, defending each other. Their trust for each other held fast as they fought. Upon coming to Hadrian’s Wall, Charles had lacked confidence and trust in any individual. Henry was the father figure of their barrack, being very mature for his seventeen years of life spent on earth. His father had taught him, ever since he could comprehend, the Sarmatian Knight’s Code of Chivalry-honor, honest, valour, and loyalty. Henry had lived by this code and often influenced it on others. He had taken to Charles when he saw that the boy lacked confidence. So they had become fast friends, Henry building up Charles’s confidence and Charles repaying him in any way he could. They had been paired on their first trial with a black dog named Moose for her constant low growling that sounded somewhat like a moose call. They had passed the trial with only minor “injuries” and they had returned their charges all safe and sound. When they saw Tristan ride off with no thought of his own safety to save Gaheris and Lavaine, they were impressed by his bravery.  At the beginning of the battle they had charged into battle side by side both of them reluctant to spill blood. They had been trained to do that but it did not seem as glamorous and fun as people like Bors made it out to be. As soon as they had entered the fray, they were almost immediately knocked from their horses. They had now managed to stay close together for a while but then they were separated. Charles, all his confidence in Henry at his back, began to panic, swinging his sword this way and that and acquiring numerous injuries. The man with ax who had spoken with Tristan earlier came up behind Charles and, with a wicked smile on his face, dug his ax into Charles’s back. Charles fell and screamed out in pain. The man raised his ax again and Charles closed his eyes, already feeling the life drain from him. No, his mind told him. Take a stand, Charles. Henry is not your source of strength. Find it within yourself. Charles placed his hand on the hilt of his sword and wrapped his fingers around it. Come on; that’s it. Hurry now, before he kills you. “RUS!” Charles yelled the Sarmatian war cry that he heard Bors use so many times as he swung his sword around and stabbed the man through the gut. The man paused in mid-strike, his eyes wide with shock and blood dripping from his mouth. The ax fell from his hand and he followed. Then the world around Charlie began to fade into black and white.

 

Henry turned when he heard Charles yell. He would’ve recognized his voice anywhere but the sound of it now made him cringe. He cut down the man he was fighting and turned just in time to see Charles fall to the ground. He ran over, beating down anyone who got in his way. By the time he made it to Charles’s side, tears were streaming down his face and Charles was already cold to the touch. Henry clenched his sword tighter in his hand, intent on killing every last Pict on the field. He stood and ran forward, cutting down two of his enemies in one strike. The battle was near over now and he relaxed only slightly when he saw that there were next to no Picts left on the field. But then his anger returned and he charged again, fire burning in his eyes.

 

Tristan looked at the woman before him. She had long black hair that was plaited behind her and green eyes that burned with a furry Tristan had not seen in anyone he had ever fought. She carried a dirke in her right hand. All around him, the Picts were falling but the woman did not run. Instead, she attacked Tristan. Tristan wasn’t ready for the attack and jumped back, he blade barely missing his stomach.

“Ha!” she laughed. “Is that all the better you can do?”

Tristan knew that she was taunting him, trying to make him angry so that he would make a mistake and she could overtake him. When he was younger and brasher, he would’ve fallen for this trick, but not anymore. Master Chiang had helped him overcome it. She attacked again but this time he was ready for it. He parried her blow and returned with a continuous stream of complicated movements, each one transitioning smoothly into the next. But this woman was well trained and she blocked them all with a smile that never seemed to leave her face. What is with this woman? He wondered as they continued to fight. He heard a scream and then few seconds later, the Sarmatian war cry. Then a feeling that something bad had just happened crept up on him, distracting him slightly. The woman took advantage of it and cut his sword arm just below the elbow where his bracer offered no protection. He flinched and backed away in pain. The wound went much deeper than the one Marhaus had given him and it was in just about the same spot. The woman raised her sword above her head, ready to strike Tristan down. Tristan blocked her blow by quickly switching his sword to his left hand, for although he was right-handed, Chiang had told him that ambidexterity had its advantages. The pain in his right arm began to overpower him as he tried hard to keep her at bay. A few parries later, he fell to his knees, the loss of blood making him weaker and weaker.

“Come now, you’re not giving up that-” she paused, the point of a sword sticking out of her stomach. She fell to the grounding revealing Arthur standing behind her, his helmet missing and a cut just above his left eye.

“Thank you, Arthur,” Tristan said, his breathing labored.

“I cannot let Lyoness loose her prince, now can I?” he asked as he kneeled next to him. “Let me see that.” He reached out for Tristan’s arm.

“But the battle-” he started to protest.

“It is almost over anyway.” He pulled Tristan’s arm over to him, removed his bracer and rolled up his sleeve. It was swollen and purple around the wound and the bleeding was refusing to stop. Tristan felt himself sway dangerously to one side. “Hold on, Tristan,” Arthur said as he ripped off part of his blue linen tunic underneath his breastplate. He tied it as tightly as he could just above the wound and the bleeding slowed and stopped. Arthur breathed a sigh of relief as Bors walked up behind him, carrying Charles in his arm. Behind him, Dagonet was trying to control a sobbing Henry.

“Arthur,” Bors said quietly.

The man turned around and Tristan struggled to his feet, using his unsheathed sword as a crutch. Tristan closed his eyes, unable to bear the sight of Charles’s bloody body. He swayed to one side, his legs still unable to completely support his weight. Arthur caught him and put his arm around him to keep him steady.

“Blast these Romans,” Bors said as he looked from Charles to Tristan.

Lavaine walked up with Launcelot behind him. “Well, at least we know one thing Tristan can’t do-beat a woman in combat.”

They all shared a much-needed laugh but it stopped when Gawaine walked over carrying another dead knight-Richard. “Shot with an arrow,” Gawaine reported.

Arthur sighed deeply. “This is not what should have happened. You all were not ready to fight in battles.” He glanced over at the faces of his knights. “Not even Tristan was.”

This comment struck them all hard. If Tristan had not been ready, thought Bors, then it is luck that so many of us survived this battle. Tristan swayed again and Launcelot went off to find the boy’s horse. Tristan heard near-silent footsteps of someone wearing cloth shoes coming behind them and, gathering his remaining strength, stabbed his sword out behind him, feeling it pierce flesh. He turned and saw a Pict fall to the ground. Then he collapsed, his body too weak to support him anymore. Arthur’s hold kept him from falling too quickly but he did not stop him. Tristan’s head buzzed, his vision going in and out.

“You only have two losses, Arthur,” came Merlyn’s soft voice. “And it looks to be fourteen injured.”

Arthur nodded his thanks to the man. “It must be nothing compared to the many Petrucles lost.”

“But your loss is heavier, since you have less men. Each life is a precious addition to your company.”

“This is true,” Arthur said as he watched Launcelot return, leading Eshtaol behind him. Then he lifted Tristan into the saddle and secured him by tying his hands around the horse’s neck and tying his feet to the stir-ups. “I fear I may lose one more before the day is out,” he added, motioned to Tristan.

Merlyn walked over to Tristan and inspected the wound. “It goes to the bone, yes, but I think that time will heal this. You will not loose Tristan.”

“Thank you, Merlyn,” Arthur said. The man, for as long as Tristan had known him, had never been wrong. He turned to the other standing around him. “Cover the dead and put those too wounded to ride in the supply wagons. The day is still young; we can make it back to the Wall by nightfall.”

The knights walked off, Launcelot leading Eshtaol. Tristan’s head bumped up and down with the movement of his horse’s neck and he let out a groan. Launcelot turned to look at him. “Would you rather ride in the wagon?”

“No. Just untie my hands.”

Launcelot did so and then led the horses over to the supply wagons. “I’m going to go help with the rest of the wounded. Try not to fall off your horse.” He walked off and then picked up his pace when he saw Uriens, one of the knights, struggling to help Edward into a wagon.

Tristan laid his head on Eshtaol’s neck, every inch of his body screaming with pain. He watched as the others partook in caring to the wounded, tying some of them to their horses to keep them from falling and loading others into the wagons. He watched with remorse as Gawaine and Bors wrapped Charles and Richard’s bodies in white linen and then placed them in a separate wagon from the wounded. Other Roman soldiers did the same with their fallen comrades. Tristan tried to count them as they were loaded on but he lost that count at two hundred. The dead Picts were pilled up and set on fire, sending a scent of death mixed with smoke into the air. The smells of it made Tristan’s breakfast come back up several times. Launcelot reined his horse up next to him about an hour or so later and Bors reined his up on the other side.

“How are you feeling?” Launcelot asked.

“Like I could sleep for a hundred years and this pain would still not go away.”

“It will eventually. Trust me.”

Petrucles rode a fast circuit around the field before announcing that their work was done and that it was time to move out. Tristan clicked to Eshtaol and started her out at a slow pace. All the way back to the Wall, Launcelot rode with Tristan, catching him the three times when he almost fell out of the saddle. Bors kept a close eye on those in the wagons with Dagonet beside him and Gawaine watched those on horseback who had been wounded. When they returned to the Wall, Tilley ran up to Bors’s horse and tugged on his pant leg. He smiled, dismounted and picked her up. “What is it, my little Tilley?”

“Mommy wants you to come quick.”

Bors looked over at Arthur who nodded his consent. “Well, let’s go see what Mommy wants then, hmm? Dag, take my horse for me.”

Dagonet nodded and grabbed the animal’s reins. Launcelot and Dagonet led the wounded to the infirmary and then helped those in the wagons out. Launcelot cut the bonds off of Tristan’s uncles.

“Thank you for all you did for me,” Tristan said as he slowly dismounted. His legs still felt weak but they were able to support him. He tied Eshtaol to a hitching post.

“I was just watching out for my friend. No thanks is needed, Tristan,” he said as he took the reins of another of the men’s horses and began walking off.

Tristan walked into the infirmary. An old man came over to him and inspected his wound. “Who tied this cloth?” he asked, referring to the tourniquet on his arm.

“Artorius.”

“He did a good job of it. If he had not, you would most likely no longer be here. What is your name?”

“Tristan.”

“Good. Come. I’ll bandage that for you.” The man crushed some herbs into a paste in a little wooden bowl and then put it on the wound. It stung and Tristan sucked air in through clenched teeth. “Sorry.” Then he wrapped a clean linen bandage around his arm. “Change it once a day with a fresh cloth.” He handed Tristan an extra bandage. “Off to your barrack now.”

Tristan nodded his thanks to the man and then walked out into the cool night. He folded his arms around him, wishing he had had a chance after their trial to get a new cloak. He supposed he would do it with his first month’s wages. He untied Eshtaol and walked her to the stables. It took him about a half an hour to get her armor off of her and then about an hour after that to wash all the blood off of it. After he bid her good-night, he walked to the barracks and then went in his own. Bors had not yet returned from seeing his wife but the rest of the men were present. Lavaine was carving something out of a block of wood; Launcelot and Gawaine had set up their own gambling game. Dagonet sat on his bed, his back leaning on the wall and his sword on his knees. Galahad and Gareth were talking whilst sitting on Lavaine’s bed next to the fire. When they heard the door open, they all looked at him.

“So, will you live?” Gawaine asked, a teasing smile on his face.

“It appears so.” He walked into the room and sat down on his bed. He undid his baldric and laid his sword on his bed. He unsheathed it with his left hand and then switched it to his right hand. He then took out his whetstone and began working at the blade of his sword. When it was to his satisfaction, he moved on to his numerous daggers. By the time he had finished those, Dagonet had gone out and gathered some meat, vegetables and water and made them all some soup. He accepted it gratefully since he had not eaten since the morning and even that came back up earlier. When everyone finished eating, he helped Dagonet with the dishes even though he insisted that he rested.

“I am not going to sit around being invalid because of a little scrape,” Tristan insisted.

Dagonet merely shook his head and then let him help. Right before they finished, Tilley ran in and said to Dagonet, “Dag, Daddy wants you to come to our house outside the fort.”

Dagonet looked at Tristan. “Will you be able to handle the rest of this on your own?”

“Yes, now go before Bors gets too impatient.”

“Thank you.” He stood and stretched his legs and then followed Tilley out. Tristan began to wonder what had taken Bors away for so long and why he would want Dagonet outside the fort in the civilian housing. He went and sat back on his bed and just sat there, thinking long after the others had gone to bed. Dagonet stumbled in about two hours after he had left with Bors behind him, holding a small bundle. Dagonet motioned for Tristan to come over and he did so.

“This is my little Gilly,” Bors announced, beaming proudly at his new son.

“Congratulations, Bors,” Tristan said as he looked at the boy. He was almost a mirror image of Bors except he had Sara’s dark hair.

“Launcelot, Gawaine! Wake up!” Bors yelled and everyone stirred in their beds.

One by one they got up and looked at little Gilly. Each of them offered their congratulations and then headed back to bed. Even Dagonet went back to bed. Tristan offered to walk back with Bors but he refused his offer.

“You need your rest.”

“I will be fine. Let me at least walk you to the southern gate.”

Bors took a deep sigh and then nodded his consent. The two started out, Gilly sleeping soundly in Bors’s arms. They passed a few soldiers on patrol but upon seeing Tristan, still in his armor from the battle, they left them alone. Tristan believed he had never seen Bors so happy since he had arrived at the wall. When they reached the southern gate, Tristan turned to leave but Bors beckoned him to come to Sara’s house with him. They came to a little house made from wood and straw. A candle was lit in the one window and the door was slightly ajar. Bors walked in and returned the child to Sara who was lying in her bed.

“Tristan, Bors tells me you have need of a cloak. Would you mind if I made you one?” Sara asked as she laid little Gilly in the cradle by her bed.

“I would hate to make you do more work right after you had a baby, ma’am.”

“Please. I’m going to be cooped up in this house for a while anyway. It will help me pass the time.”

“I suppose it would be alright then.”

“Good. Now get back to your barrack and get some rest.”

Bors clapped Tristan on the back. “Better do as she says before she gets crabby.”

“Aren’t you coming back to the barrack?”

“No. I am going to stay here with Sara. Tell Arthur for me in the morning.”

“I will. Good-night, Bors, Sara.” He walked from the house and back to the barrack. He removed his armor with a little difficulty and decided he would clean it in the morning. Then he put more wood on the fire, climbed into bed and went to sleep.