Knightshade Ch. 03

The knight saw my hungry stare and gently offered it to me after he finished reading aloud. I hesitated, still terrified of these men.

Dagonet had scoffed.

He no doubt was affixing me as not being able to read. At the thought, I snatched that book--tucking it into my lap. I waited until Bors walked away to take it out again. Randomly opening the pages, I landed on a short one stanza poem. The words were familiar and it didn't take me long to understand the rhythm of those written words.

I kept my success to myself.

Now, I read a poem about heroism. It seems that most of these are about men and beasts and God. Men are flawed but with God, the beast--the metaphor for the flaw--can be conquered and the man finds glory.

Such a simple yet effective blueprint.

I idly read, wrapped up in the story and completely unaware of my surroundings until a heavy hand touches my shoulder.

"Darling girl, do not move." Dagonet sits next to me. If his closeness isn't warning enough that something is awry, then the steady way he polishes his sword is.

"Can you read?"

I nod at the knight's question as I continue to stare down at the book.

"Not such a heathen after all," I can feel Dagonet looking over my shoulder, he is so close to me that I can smell the mead he was drinking just moments ago. His huge hand comes into my vision and points at a specific word. "Read."

Hide.

I have just enough time to process his meaning before thunderous cries make me jump.

The yells come from the forest and they are close.

With that in mind, I avoid the large trees and run to the large boulders strung out between our camp and a field. The clash of metal and yells ricochet as I curl up in the shadows. The sounds quickly get closer and louder; peeking around the rock, I see swords flash and bodies fall. The fire light is behind the battle, making it near impossible to tell which group is winning.

And which is losing.

I find myself trembling; I might still fear the knights, but I fear the unknown more.

Squinting through the darkness, I try to scramble together a plan for my next steps. I could run. I have learned enough about camping to survive for a little bit, but it creates the same question as before--then what?

In the distance, I make out Tristan riding into the melee. His sword is out and already tinged with blood. A sudden relief that burns around the edges soaks through my body. My anxiety has not ended, but it has lessened. Just as I lean back behind the boulder, a tug on my hair pulls me from my hiding spot.

My hands scramble at the fist pulling as my feet try to find purchase against the dirt ground.

I can't turn my head to see who is dragging me, but the rough treatment tells me it is not one of my knights. Behind me, my attacker untangles his hand from my hair, pulling strands of hair with it, and before I can roll away a boot rests heavily on my chest.

Above me, a monster stands--spear ready to thrust through my body. He looks like a viking, barely clothed with blue staining his skin. I clench my hands--ready for the puncture that will end my life. But he hasn't moved yet, instead the man stands staring down at me--as if confused by my presence here. I try to wriggle his weight off of me. As I do, my attacker leans down to grab me. A human jaw bone hung from string slips from where it is hidden underneath snarled hair.

I scream.

From behind the boulder, Bors walks towards us. He is slick with sweat, his battle ax already swinging at the man standing over me. The man ducks, scrambling across the dirt to escape the deadly metal whistling through the night air.

With the pressure of his boot off of me, I crawl back against the cold stone--wishing myself invisible.

The man has readied his spear and dances back from the knight and his battle ax. Bors is quick, but so is the stained man. I watch them from the shadows as they prowl back and forth. The blows of battle, along with grunts of pain, behind me get closer and closer.

I'm frozen in indecision. I want to run, badly. I know that my scream has probably alerted other attackers of my presence. If I stay pressed against the stone, I risk them seeking me out. Yet, if I run--I risk them knowing for sure where I am. Curling into myself, I make the choice to stay.

I try to calm my panicked breaths as footsteps get closer and closer. The man that Bors is battling yells unintelligible words and in response a shadow becomes a man walking towards me. My hiding spot is officially discovered.

Standing from my crouch, I've stopped thinking as I dart around the boulder--attempting to get closer to Bors.

"Girl."

I look up just in time to find the knight darting me a glance, a flash of silver flickers from his hand to skid and rest at my feet. In the grass in front of me lies a large hunting knife. I don't know how to use it, but the thought doesn't stop me from grasping it in my palm and turning towards my assailant.

He looks similar to my first attacker, perhaps a bit smaller and barely distinguishable in the fog of the night with his blue-stained skin. There is a bow and arrow in his hands; but, it seems his intent is not to kill me, for he walks towards me rather than stringing an arrow. With each step towards me, I take a step back--the hunting knife extended out in front of me in a meager attempt at defense.

The panic of what will become of me if he succeeds in catching me numbs my body as the man suddenly bolts forward. His large hand goes to my wrist, attempting to knock the knife loose. I grasp onto it, even as I am shucked to the ground.

Rolling to my side, I scoot myself away as the man kneels down to catch my flailing limbs. I kick his shoulder as hard as I can muster before sitting up. Caught off balance, my attacker props himself up with his hand catching the ground behind him. The moment seems to slow and I find myself standing in preparation to run.

I don't even take a step before my ankle is locked in the man's grip, and I am unbalanced. Panic grips through me as I lean forward to catch myself.

The man before me makes a gurgling sound.

I look down to find my hand is at the side of his throat, the hunting knife buried to the hilt. It takes all my strength to pull my hand, still clutching onto the knife, away from the rapidly dying man. As I stare in horror before me, I can barely feel the blood dampening the ground, can barely feel the hand at my ankle slackening.

Somewhere a sharp horn from the forest descends and the silence that follows rings at my ears.

I don't know how long I kneel there.

...

When Tristan pulls me into his arms, I don't care that he is bloody or how conflicted I feel about him. I clutch onto him as the fear and the knowledge of what I just did finally crashes over me.

Tilting my head up to face his own, Tristan leans down to kiss me softly. His lips barely touch mine as he pulls me away from the gore at my feet. When he moves his face from mine, I find that he has taken the dagger from my grasp.

"You did very well, Julietta," my name is barely a whisper on his tongue as his hand strokes my hair.

I try not to look at the bodies while we pack up camp to move on. We ride for hours--Tristan speaking in Latin to the others, and I know that he is doing it to keep me from understanding whatever it is he is saying, but I can't be bothered to care--before we set camp again. This time without a fire.

The bedrolls are placed close together as the knights sit to pass around a couple containers of liquor, their weapons close to them.

I watch them, bloody and battered--Galahad especially worse for wear--but still very much alive. Killers, all of them. Brutal, skilled.

I suppose I am a killer now too.

Underneath the blankets that Tristan and I share, I feel cold and tired, empty.

Too empty for what I just did; too full of questions on why those two men didn't kill me outright when they had so many chances.

"So, you can read."

I look up from where I had been staring mindlessly at my fingers. Arthur leans on his side, a bottle clutched in his hands. I can feel the others staring at me.

I wonder if they assumed that I was looking at the sketches included in the book all those times next to the fire. I feel too exhausted to reply, too exhausted to move my eyes from where they are glued to Arthur's.

"In what land do they teach whores to read?" I can feel Tristan tense at Gawain's cruel words, the tell-tale sign of a fight on the way. More conflict is something I can't fathom, so I rest my hand on Tristan's cheek to still him.

"Is that what you think I am?" the question comes out as a whisper, it feels dangerous. I feel dangerous.

"You aren't virginal as we all hea--"

"I would not finish that sentence if I were you, Gawain." Tristan trembles with each retrained word.

I shake my head as I slide my hand from Tristan's cheek to the mead that he has clutched in his hand.

This is new.

The knight had offered his drinks to me before, but I had always refused--scared of what would happen while I was inhibited. Scared of this time. Scared of myself. Now, I don't care.

Fuck it all to hell.

Taking a deep pull of the liquor, I force it down. It is bitter, it burns as it slides down my throat. But, it doesn't take long for the stars to blur, and the turmoil in my chest to ease.

I can hear speaking, rapid words but I don't even try to follow them.

"I am not a whore." I say to no one in particular before laying down.

Let them bicker. I don't care.