Chapter 7-Best of the Best

Arthur glanced at the knights seat at the Round Table. It was the first day of their fifteenth and final year of service to the Roman Empire. He had started out with thirty-nine knights, each of them dedicated to a cause not of their own. But now the numbers had dwindled down to twelve. Closest to Arthur, although still five chairs away, was Bors. The man was forty-seven now and had twelve children to his name though he was still not married to their mother. Beside him was his oldest son, Dagonet. The boy was almost thirty now but his quiet demeanor had not changed. He now stood at a full six feet and two inches, making him taller than all of the other knights. Next to him was Steven. The boy was the youngest upon arriving for training; he was not yet twenty-seven. Three chairs down from him was Edward. Despite constant coaching from Arthur, the thirty-two-year-old remained brash and hardly controllable. One chair down from him was Samuel, the shortest of the knights. But though he only stood four feet and five inches high, he was not one to be underestimated. He had once killed twelve men by himself before Dagonet and Bors could come and help him. After him, in the next three chairs, sat the only remaining brothers of the group-Gawaine, Galahad and Gareth. Before there had been another set of brothers-Balin and Balan-but they had gotten into a quarrel and killed each other. Gawaine was the eldest of the three, being thirty-three, and he was the rough and tough one. Galahad, now thirty, was the more refined of the three but any royal would have still called him a barbarian. Gareth, now twenty-seven, was the loudest of the group, as he had broken out of his shell as the years passed by. Two chairs away from Gareth was Pedivere, a thirty-four-year-old with a temper as fiery as his red hair. Six chairs down from Pedivere was Lavaine. He was now thirty-four and his good sense of humor had cheered the men in some of the darkest of times.

Three chairs away from him was Launcelot. The man was now thirty-five and his weapons of choice were two swords that he carried on his back. The other men had often told Launcelot that he had a way with woman. But despite this, at the end of the day, Launcelot would rather be alone. Four chairs down from Launcelot was Tristan. Tristan was now twenty-nine and had proved himself as one of the best of the knights. On his left arm sat a hawk that he had had for two years ever since he found the bird as a tiny, abandoned hatchling. Over the years, Tristan had drawn more and more withdrawn from the group, giving him the label of a loner.

“Knights,” Arthur began, using his customary name for them, “welcome to your fifteenth and final year of service to the Roman Empire. If you survive this year, you will be free to return to your homes and, in a few cases, take your family home with you. Now, we have already received an assignment.” Groans escaped from the lips of all the men save Tristan and Dagonet.

“Come now,” Dagonet said, “the more assignments we have, the faster the time will pass.”

“Thank you, Dagonet. A Roman family is moving to the safety of Hadrian’s Wall but they have no protection. They are the Duke and Duchess De Bigot and their three sons. They do have a daughter but she is studying in Rome.”

“That sounds like a fun life,” Lavaine commented.

“It is when you’re a duchess’s daughter,” Tristan said quietly.

“How would know?”

Tristan looked Lavaine straight in the eyes and then shrugged.

“When are we to leave?” Launcelot asked, steering the conversation in a safer direction.

“One hour. They are anxious to leave their estate.”

“How far away are they?” He ran his fingers over his name carved into the wooden table in Latin.

“One hundred and thirty miles away on the seashore.”

“That should be a fun trip, shouldn’t it, Dag?” Bors asked his son.

Dagonet looked at him and shrugged. “I suppose.”

“Go on and prepare to leave. You know where to meet me.” Arthur stood and the other stood with him.

One by one they left the room, knowing that the meeting was adjourned. When they had all left, Merlyn, a completely ancient man by now, stood from his place in a chair in the corner and walked over to Arthur.

“How do you feel about this assignment, old man?” Arthur asked him.

Merlyn shook his head. “It will be a painful one for two of your knights, although I cannot tell which two. I just know it will be two of them.”

“Will it be death?” he asked his voice anxious.

“Perhaps, perhaps not. I cannot tell this time. If the Christ intends it to be death, then yes, Lucius Artorius Castus, you will loose two men on this assignment.”

 

*          *          *

 

Tristan secured the last saddlebag on his horse and then mounted up. Eshtaol made a quiet neighing sound as if in protest. “I do not like it anymore than you do.” He brushed his chin-length hair out of his face but the wind blew it right back. He sighed and pushed her forward until he was in line alongside Bors.

“I don’t like it,” Bors said to all of them. “Why doesn’t a family of high importance to Rome have any guards?”

“Perhaps the Picts killed them all,” Galahad offered.

“Then why didn’t the Picts kill them while they were at it?”

Galahad shrugged.

“Maybe they heard about my rugged good looks and couldn’t resist but to call for aide,” Launcelot said, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“That’s highly unlikely,” Gawaine argued, “since I am the best looking one of the group.”

“Oh, is that it?” Bors asked.

“What I want to know is, if Gawaine and Launcelot are as handsome as they claim, why are all the pretty ladies always around me?” Galahad asked. The response he got was a dirty look from Gawaine. He shrugged his shoulders.

Tristan looked up as Arthur entered the courtyard. “Knights-” he started to say.

“Yeah, yeah, Arthur, we’re ready,” Bors said.

Arthur nodded. “Tristan.”

Tristan whistled and his hawk flew down from one of the rooftops and landed on his arm. “You ready to go out?” he said, sending the bird out to scout ahead of them for any unwanted company. Then he rode after her, glad to be set free from the group of knights. Over the years, Tristan had grown more and more disconnected from people and had sunk deeper and deeper into his shell. Now he would prefer to be by himself and he always felt stifled in a group of people, but yet, there was strength in numbers. He rode along, feeling Eshtaol’s galloping hooves beneath him and listening intently to the silence around him for her warning call. Behind him, he could hear Arthur and the knight’s horses’ hooves. They were traveling at a slower pace than him to be sure that no Picts would jump out at them without Tristan’s warning. He had never failed them in this respect over the years and he was grateful that his father had had him take so many lessons as a boy. He headed toward the open gates of Hadrian’s Wall and marveled at the rare sight. Because of the threat of the Picts and other warring tribes to the north, the gates were kept shut unless some Roman or another needed to enter or exit by them for any reason. Why a family as powerful as the De Bigots was staying that far north of the Wall was beyond him, but he had given up trying to figure out the Romans here in Briton. He passed through the gate in a matter of seconds and onto the road beyond it. He rode on alone for about two more hours before his hawk let out a warning screech. He reined Eshtaol to a stop and looked up at the sky. The animal flew above him not a hundred feet away. He dismounted and walked over to where his bird had made the sound, glad that he was wearing cuirass and not the armor that some of the other knights wore; it would have been to noisy. He climbed a tall oak tree and looked out toward the place where his hawk circled.

Roughly fifty Picts were camped in a grove of trees with ten of them on watch. He climbed down the tree as quickly and quietly as he could before he mounted back up and ran to tell Arthur of the danger. He met them about twelve miles behind him, riding at a canter. He pulled Eshtaol a stop in front of Arthur and the others stopped as well.

“What is it, Tristan?” Arthur asked.

“There’s a band of about fifty, give or take, Picts about twelve miles up the road from here. They’ll spot us before we get within half a mile of them.”

“Do they have archers?”

“Three or four, that I saw.” He wet his lips with his tongue as he looked expectantly at Arthur.

“Find a way for us to come up behind them. We’ll continue along the road at a walk so we won’t be far from here.”

Tristan nodded and turned Eshtaol off the road and onto the rough grass beside it. He rode her as hard as he dared, hoping and praying that there were ruts in the grass that could cause her a break or tear in one of her legs.  He shook off the thought of loosing another of his animals and continued on. It wasn’t long until he came to a shallow stream about half a mile behind the woods in which the Picts hid. It was shallow enough for them cross but it would alert the Picts at the same time. They were in the range for which an arrow could hit them, so perhaps, if they fired as they rode, they would be at an advantage. He shook his head. He could not see them winning this fight. He turned his horse and rode back and once again found Arthur. “There is a way, but it would require us crossing a stream and that would alert them of our presence. But at the edge of the stream, they come into range. We could fire at them as we crossed.”

“Thank you, Tristan.” He turned to the men. “String your bows.” The men set about their work. Arthur leaned over and whispered in Tristan’s ear, “Do you think this will work?”

“I’m skeptical. Thirteen against fifty are mighty unfair odds.”

“We have had worse.”

“Yes, Arthur, but we had the help of Roman soldiers then. I do not see us winning this fight.”

“String your bow and then lead us to the place.”

Tristan sighed and did as his commander told him to. When all the men were ready, he started out at a gallop toward the place he had found. As they neared the stream, they slowed their pace as to not to warn the Picts with the sound of pounding hooves. Tristan put an arrow to the string as they crossed the stream, the horses’ hooves splashing up water in their faces and made a sound loud enough to be heard, Tristan thought, a mile away. He loosed his first arrow and then fit another to the string, not even looking to see if his last had hit its target. The Picts scrambled around for their weapons as they had been expecting an attack this far north of the Wall. Tristan dropped two men who were trying to fit arrows to the string and Bors dropped the two who stood beside them. Tristan caracoled Eshtaol around, avoiding arrows and spear points aimed at him and his horse. He pushed her to the edge of the trees then dismounted, putting his bow in his empty quiver as he did. Then he drew his sword from its sheath and headed into the fray to rescue a flailing Lavaine. After he had cut down the two men who were at his back, he ran off to find another fight. He cut down man by man, glancing around all the time to see if any of his companions might need help. Each time he saw one, he would finish off anyone he was fighting and anyone who got in his way and would help them. He heard Edward growled and then screamed from nearby and Tristan stabbed the man in front of him and turned to look at what had happened. A Pict was standing over him and watched as he tried to escape by crawling away. Tristan ran forward as the man grabbed Edward by his hair and cut him across his chest. Another Pict jumped in his way, but Tristan stabbed him without even thinking, hoping beyond hopes that he could still save Edward. With their number down to so few as this, every life was more important to them than a brigade of soldiers to a centurion. The man saw Tristan coming and smiled wickedly. Tristan noticed that the man was in a relaxed stance. Then he felt blood flowing from his body and then he felt himself go weak and collapse. The last thing he heard was Arthur’s horrified yell.

 

*          *          *

Dark. If there was one thing Tristan hated, it was this and right now, this was all that he could see. His head throbbed but he ignored it. He let his eyes adjust to the dark and then glanced around. A small glimmer of light could be seen directly in front of him but nothing else could be seen. He cursed inwardly and then listened. He could hear the low murmur of speech and the noise of horses pawing the ground and fires crackling. At least it was not completely silent; that would have driven him mad. He felt something cold trickle down his face and tried to move his hand to wipe it away but found that he couldn’t. Then he remembered-the Picts had most likely captured him after he was knocked out. Why they had kept him alive this long was beyond him. He twisted his wrists this way and that, trying to loosen the ropes. Where was his hawk? Usually, she stayed close during battle, watching from a nearby tree or the sky above. He whistled but heard nothing; no flapping of wings or her friendly call. If Edward hadn’t been so foolish, he thought, I wouldn’t be here right now. No, it’s not Edward’s fault that I’m here, it’s my own. I tried to save him and failed and gotten captured. Why did they not kill me and save me the guilt that I’ll have to live with until I die? He pulled his knees up to his face. He could hear more movement in the camp and knew that either it morning was eminent or the watches were switching. After putting his knees back down, he stared harder at the small glimmer of light. It had gotten slightly brighter but not by much. He could now see his legs in front of him and he saw that liquid that had been running down his face and was now on his pants was blood. “Great,” he muttered. He wiggled his wrists again, this time feeling the ropes cut through his skin. “That’s not going to work.” He looked up and closed his eyes. “Dear Father in Heaven,” he prayed, “give me a way out this mess and I will find some way to repay you. I swear it on my life.” Tristan lowered his head and felt a gentle breeze on his face. The flap to the tent opened slightly and he could see now that he was in a small camp and the people that held him weren’t Picts at all-they were slave traders. He could see that falling snow was coating the ground, a typical thing on this island even in the middle of summer, and that four men were sitting around a fire with his weapons lying in between two of them; all of his weapons except the dagger he kept in his boot and his bow. The flap shut again, leaving him in the dark once more.

He began to think of a way out, his mind telling him that his dagger had to still be in his boot. Maybe, if he could reach out and pull it out with his teeth…the flap opened again and a boy of thirteen walked in carrying a knife, rope and a torch. He cut Tristan’s bonds and forced him to his feet. Tristan cursed. They knew he wouldn’t hurt so young a boy. The set the torch down carefully on the earthen floor and tied Tristan’s hands in front of him, leaving some of the rope to lead him by. He led him out of the tent to the four who were sitting around the fire. The tallest of them took the rope away from the boy and shooed him away. As soon as the boy had gone, Tristan yanked the rope from the man’s hands and him in the face with his fists, knocking him to the ground. This drew the attention of the other three and they rushed over to try to restrain him again. Anger burned in Tristan’s eyes as he kicked and punched at them, knocking them to the ground as well. He quickly leaned down and his dagger from his boot. Ever so carefully, he began to cut through the ropes. The came off just as more of the slave traders ran over, ready to beat him to the ground and obviously used to this kind of resistance. Tristan grabbed his sword from its place by the fire and the slave traders drew theirs. The thundering of hooves reached his ears and then another sound made him heave a sigh of relief.

“RUS!” Bors yelled as he, Arthur and the rest of the knights, minus Edward, rushed into the camp. Bors pulled his horse to a stop next to Tristan and handed him Eshtaol’s reins.

At the sight of Arthur and his knights, the traders dropped their weapons. Tristan returned his sword to the empty sheath on his back and mounted up.

“Missing something?” came Dagonet’s voice from behind.

Tristan turned around to see his hawk, Teghan, perched on Dagonet’s saddle. She flew onto his outstretched arm. “Where have you been?”

“She helped us find you.”

“Good girl, Teghan,” Tristan said as he fed her a few pieces of corn from his pouch. He glanced around, looking for Arthur. The man was over talking to the traders. He had dismounted and sheathed his sword. Tristan rode over to them.

“We did not know he was one your knights, Arthur,” one of the traders was saying, struggling to form his tongue around the English. “If we had known, we would have released him immediately. The Picts bring us their prisoners all the time.”

Arthur glanced over at Tristan was now beside him on his horse. “All is forgiven, gentlemen. Sir Tristan does not hold this against you. Please, go in peace.”

The man nodded and bowed shallowly. Then he ran off and hurried his men with preparations to leave.

“Arthur, what of Edward?” Tristan asked, stroking Teghan’s head.

“We had a farmer take him back to the Wall for burial. Do not hold his death against yourself, Tristan.”

Tristan bowed his head. “I’ll try not to, Arthur.”

“Good.” Arthur mounted up. “Come on, we still have a mission to complete.” Arthur turned his horse back toward the road and the knights followed.

Tristan headed to the front of the group and Teghan took to the air. He continued scouting but the only people he ran into were farmers and merchants. Every time he met one, he would ask them which way it was to the House of De Bigot and they would all point in the same direction. He followed their directions until nightfall when he turned his horse around and went off to find where Arthur had decided to camp. A light rain began to fall, turning the snow into slush and making certain patches icy. Bors pulled his cloak over his head, but none of the others seemed to mind.

“I hate this island,” Bors said as he wrapped his cloak closer around himself.

“So you have expressed many times,” Gawaine said, wiping water from his eyes.

“And I mean to express it many more times.”

“Well, while you are expressing your love for this island, you can get over here and help clear the snow so we have some place dry to sleep,” Gareth said.

Bors growled, stood and walked over to where Arthur, Launcelot, Tristan, Gareth and Dagonet were working with their fingers to clear away the icy snow. He joined in and before too long they had cleared the area and put up their tents.

“Tristan, take the first watch,” Arthur said.

Tristan nodded and whistled. Teghan flew down from her perch on a tree branch. He put her inside his tent and then unsheathed his sword and laid it across his knees to wait out the end of his watch. The wind whistled through the trees and the rain fell harder, but Tristan ignored it. He listened to the sounds beyond those. A deer ran from the snapping teeth of a fox and a squirrel scrambled up a tree after a thieving chipmunk. A rabbit ventured on the edge of the camp but then hopped off into the shadows. Three snakes slithered into the warmth of the fire and stayed there, warming themselves until they were satisfied and then they too, disappeared into the murk of the night. When he felt as though he could no longer keep his eyes open, Tristan woke Dagonet and then went into his tent to get some sleep. Teghan’s screech woke him the next morning and he took out of the tent and let her fly off to hunt. Gawaine was on watch and the sun had not yet risen so he returned to his tent. Gawaine came to wake him not an hour later but he was already up, so Gawaine moved on to Bors’s tent. Tristan slipped on his cuirass, baldric, sword, daggers, hawk glove that he had cut all but the first two fingers off of, and bracers and then walked out into the open air. Bors grumbled as he emerged from his tent and Arthur had already started a fire and put a pot over it to start breakfast. Galahad and Gareth were trying to find more wood that wasn’t so wet that they could burn and Launcelot was sharpening one of his swords. Lavaine and Pedivere were arguing over something and Steven was helping Samuel with his breastplate. Dagonet sat alone at the edge of the camp, gazing out into the trees beyond.

“Tristan!” Arthur called out and Tristan walked over to where the man stood. “Where’s Teghan?”

“She went off to hunt maybe an hour ago.”

“We should reach the De Bigot residence today. I want you to ride ahead when Teghan returns and get to the residence before we do and tell them that we shall be there soon. But, if there is danger in the road, come back and tell us.”

“I will set out as soon as Teghan returns.”

Arthur smiled and handed him a chunk of bread and piece of cheese. “Thank you, Tristan.”

Tristan nodded but he knew that it was really Arthur who was doing him the favor. He didn’t like riding all day among the others and listening to their chatter. He ate the bread and cheese while he waited for Teghan to return then packed up his tent and saddled his horse. Years ago, the other men would have acquired after where he was going so early, but they knew better now. Tristan was Arthur’s scout and when Tristan left the camp that meant that Tristan was off on some errand or another for Arthur. He whistled and waited. Teghan let out a call in return and then landed on his outstretched arm. “There you are. Did you have a good breakfast?” He mounted up and then sent her back out to fly above the road and warn him of danger. He spurred Eshtaol forward and then headed out on the road himself, traveling at a gallop. He had seen this part of the road last night and he had memorized everywhere anyone could be hiding. He checked them all over carefully with his eyes before speeding his horse back up. This would be a long day.

 

Luke De Bigot was walking swiftly through the courtyard when there came a shout from the guards to open the gates. Was his sister back? She wasn’t due to come to Briton for another three months. He glanced over to the gatehouse and saw a man on a Friesian riding in. He had chin-length hair that had six short braids in it here and there and tattoos under each of his eyes. He wore all black underneath a cuirass and he carried a hawk on his arm. On his back he carried a sword of eastern make and a quiver hung from his saddle. He pulled his horse to a stop in front of Luke and bowed in the saddle.

“My name is Tristan of the Sarmatian Knights under Lucius Artorius Castus. I am from Hadrian’s Wall,” the man said, a slight accent that Luke had never heard before to his voice.

“Where’s the rest of your company?”

“Arthur sent me ahead to inform you of our coming.”

“I am Luke De Bigot, the heir to Duke De Bigot. I will tell my father that you are here.” He turned on his heel and was surprised to see his father walking into the courtyard.

“There is no need to, Luke. The servants are much faster than you,” the man said as he walked to his son’s side and observed the man on the horse.

“That is Sir Tristan from Hadrian’s Wall, father. He has come to inform us that the rest of the party to escort us to the Wall will come later.”

“And who is of this party, Sir Tristan?”

“Lucius Artorius Castus, Sir Launcelot, Sir Gawaine, Sir Galahad, Sir Gareth, Sir Samuel, Sir Steven, Sir Bors, Sir Dagonet, Sir Pedivere and Sir Lavaine,” Tristan answered.

“So few?”

“We lost Sir Edward on our way here to the hands of the Picts and the others have been lost on other missions over the past fourteen years.”

“I see. We will prepare to leave. Will you join us inside away from the cold?”

Tristan was about to decline but then he remembered something from his childhood and changed his mind. “If you wish me to, then I shall.”

“Ah, I see you are well-mannered. Come, come, I will not leave you out here in this weather.”

Tristan dismounted and Luke took the reins to his horse. He led the animal to the water trough as he watched his father and the warrior from the Wall walk into the warmth of the keep together, his father chattering away about this and that. There was something about this knight that struck Luke as familiar, but he didn’t know what. Joshua, the second youngest, and Levi, the youngest of the family, even after his sister, Olivia, walked up to him.

“That is a magnificent horse. It looks suited for a king,” Joshua commented as he ran his hand over the horse’s neck. “Whose is it?”

“Sir Tristan of the Sarmatian Knights’. He has come to tell us that the rest of the knights will be here to escort us to the Wall soon.” He watched as the horse drank its fill from the water trough.

“What is a Sarmatian Knight doing with a horse like that?” Levi asked.

Luke shrugged. “You never know with the Sarmatians. Their horses are superior to many others.”

“Yes, but this is no Sarmatian horse. This is a Friesian.”

“Like I said, I do not know. He looks familiar though. I have seen his tattoos before, I’m just not too sure where. I am suspicious about him.”

“Who would not be?” Joshua asked.

The horse had finished drinking so Luke tied it a pole by the stables and walked away from it. “The thing that has me baffled is his tattoos. The Mongolian warriors once had them and I have not heard of a Mongolian in the Sarmatians Knights before.”

“I doubt he is Mongolian. The Romans would have killed him before he was put in with the Sarmatians. Besides, the Sarmatian Knights are all the direct line of descendants of those the Romans first defeated when Sarmatia was defeated. Therefore, he has to be the descendant of one of them and he cannot be a Mongolian. Do you not pay attention in out history studies?” Joshua asked.

“He is too busy thinking about Lyla,” Levi taunted his brother and he received a rough shove that made his balance falter.

“Your point is well seen, Joshua. Perhaps I am just thinking about this too much.” Luke heard the gate creak open again and then he saw a party of eleven men ride in led by a man in armor of Roman make and a red cape. “That must be the great Artorius.”

The men pulled their horses to a stop. The first man bowed in his saddle. “I am Lucius Artorius Castus, Commander of the Sarmatian Knights, sent by my superiors in Southern Briton to bring you all to the safety of the Wall.”

“My father is expecting you, Artorius. Your knight, Sir Tristan, arrived not ten minutes ago. He is with my father now,” Luke said. He looked over the other knights and was surprised with how different they looked from the standard Roman soldier in the red tunics and steel armor.

“That is good to hear,” Arthur answered, “although I must ask that you make all haste to pack your things so that we may leave as soon as possible. Enough time has already passed by and I fear that those back at the Wall will begin to worry.”

“Of course, we will make all haste.”

“Thank you. It is appreciated.”

Tristan and Duke De Bigot emerged from the keep and Tristan returned to his horse, untied it, and then mounted back up.

“Father, Artorius requests that we make haste,” Luke said to his father.

De Bigot glanced around at his sons. “You sent a letter to your sister telling her to return to Hadrian’s Wall and not here?” he asked Levi.

“Yes, sir. I sent it out with the messenger earlier this morning. He was traveling as a farmer.”

“Good. All three of you go and tell the servants to make all haste and that we shall be leaving in an hour.”

 

Tristan watched as the last of the belongings the De Bigots were taking with them was loaded into a wagon. That made three of them altogether which meant the traveling would be slow. He did not like that. He rode over to Arthur and positioned Eshtaol beside his horse. “The traveling will be slow. It will take us at least four days to get back the Wall.”

“That is if the Picts decide not to attack us. We will just have to cope with the De Bigots on this. Have patience, Tristan.”

“I will try but I do not think I can take four days of the stares from De Bigot’s sons. It unnerves me.”

“Ride at the front of the group. With this company, it will be no need to scout ahead. We will most likely attract too much attention anyway.”

“Are you sure? I can still warn you of an attack.”

“Do not worry about it. We will be fine. I think, after the beating we gave that last band of Picts, they will not soon bother us.”

Tristan acknowledged the statement with a nod of his head and then rode to the front of the group as the procession began moving out.

 

Author's Note

tell me if you think the transition between chapters 6 and 7 is awkward