Chivalry ♛ King Arthur

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ONLY a day passed, but when Bedivere and Percy hauled Arthur onto the boat, it looked as if he had been in the wilderness for weeks. They laid him out on the deck and stepped back. The manner in which Bedivere and Percival looked down at him was curious, like they hadn't expected the true king of England to bleed.

Frida forced them aside and knelt, assessing his injuries. By far, the most concerning was the gash on his forehead that went up into his hairline. The rest were only small cuts and scrapes, or bruises.

With a damp piece of cloth, she wiped the dirt and dried blood away from his face. He did not wake, not even when she pulled a piece of detritus from the cut. The old knight watched curiously as she worked with a patient ease. He could already tell that she was Arthur's counterbalance.

Percy sat a pail of freshly mixed saline solution down next to her and gave her a stack of linen pieces. She thanked him and dipped a strip of the linen into the cloudy liquid. It stung the small nicks on her hands. Edwyn had always told her that if it stung or burned, then it meant it was working.

His eyes shot open at the abrupt stinging sensation, followed by a sharp inhale. "Sorry," Ida muttered, dabbing the cloth over the wound. He watched her and thought it was fitting that the sun had cast a halo of light around her.

"S'okay," Arthur said softly in return, a lazy smile stretching across his cracked lips. She moved onto his hands. The skin on most his knuckles was split. They would soon match the deep scars that ran across his palms.

Eydís prepared a poultice of honey, yarrow, and turmeric. It was a deep golden color and smelled faintly of citrus. She placed the thick leaf holding the cataplasm next to Frida and stepped back.

"You've done this before," her sister mused, keeping her distance after what had transpired the prior evening. In truth, she was surprised to find that Frida knew the proper procedures. It wasn't until after she was an acolyte that Merlin had taught her the art of healing.

Frida continued spreading the paste over Arthur's brow, a faint smile appearing on her tired features. "I've lost count of how many times I've patched this one up," she admitted in a tone laced with mirth. That earned her a sharp glare from the Born King, though.

♛ ♛ ♛

It had taken twice as long to return to the hidden cave in the downpour. The deluge was permeated by the occasional flash of lightning and the accompanying clap of thunder. However, the storm faded when the curtain of foliage at the cave's entrance was pulled back.

A chill that had been in the air was chased away by the earthen warmth and lit braziers. Although it could not remedy the chill that had sunk into their bones from wet clothes. Clarisse was able to spare two dry gowns for the Mage and her sister. Between Rubio and the others, they were able to scrounge up a dry pair of pants and a tunic for Arthur.

He limped to one of the beds. Between his swollen ankle and tender muscles, he was glad to be off his feet again. Frida followed him, knowing that soggy bandages would do nothing but hinder his wounds from mending.

"You're awfully quiet," she noted as she wrapped his hand in a clean strip of linen. The bruise around his eye was beginning to show its dark colors. Frida couldn't say if his unusual silence was because of what he had seen in the Darklands or his state of exhaustion, maybe it was both. He didn't say anything.

"You need to rest," Frida told him, setting the box of supplies aside. Salves could only do so much. Time would be the best remedy for his wounds. Patience, though, had never been one of Arthur's fortes.

She wiped her hands on a thin apron. Art wrapped his hand around her wrist before she could stand. "Don't go." Frida sighed but kicked off her slippers and laid next to him, head resting on his shoulder. Once she was sure he was asleep, Frida rose and replaced her slippers. She crept toward the back of the cave and the poor space that they called a kitchen. Ida was troubled and there was only one thing that could ease her mind. Baking.

Flour coated her hands as she kneaded the crumbling dough. Bowls filled with fresh picked wild berries were curing with honey and sugar. Bedivere had thought her sudden request strange at first, but relented, and now observed her as she worked.

He had known Edwyn from his days as a member in Uther's court. A widower with no surviving children and yet a small girl had wandered into his life one stormy night. It was clear that she had done well as an orphan. Arthur had as well. Londinium wasn't a kind city, but they both had flourished under hardship.

Soon, the dough and berries became hand pies, dusted with sugar and slipped into a stone oven that Rubio had tended for her. "Stress baking?" A familiar voice asked from behind.

Frida jumped, dropping a dull butter knife onto the ground, then quickly turned around. "Tristan!"

In two strides, he wrapped his arms around her waist. "I'm glad to see your face," Wet Stick said, giving her cheek a quick peck. They'd searched the city for her after the bridge was burned and feared the worst when they couldn't find her.

"Ida!" The boy ran around Wet Stick and jumped up into her arms. Back Lack was about to scold Blue, but couldn't bring himself to scold the boy, not after they thought she'd been murdered by the blacklegs.

Blue looked around the kitchen, a small frown appearing on his young face. "Where's the boss?" It was a question that Wet Stick and Back Lack had too.

♛ ♛ ♛

"Smaller than I thought it'd be," she heard Blue remark as she set a platter of the fresh hand pies at the center of the room. The boy was looking over Excalibur and the way the ripples on the blade moved like water with the shifting light. It looked more like a work of art than a weapon.

Arthur leaned back on a stool, hand holding his bruised ribs. "It's all yours, son, but I warn you, it's got quite a bite." Blue propped the sword upon the hearth and dashed forward, grabbing one of the berry hand pies. They were still warm and had a sweet glaze that was seeping into the golden crust. "What they done back home?"

"You really wanna know?" Tristan questioned. Frida knew at that moment their life in Londinium would never be the same.

"It's all gone," Back Lack said, shaking his head, "they torched the lot." That was a severe understatement of the chaos that had erupted after Arthur fled the chopping block.

Art tugged on the shawl draped around his shoulders. The shadows from the fire made his bruised eye look black. "Go on," he said, knowing that wasn't the whole truth. The whole truth was always worse.

"You should be flattered, mate. Even Mercia left the castle to look for you and that sword." The Earl of Mercia was Vortigern's prime advisor, the only member left of Uther's court. He seldom left the King's side.

Back Lack glanced down at the woven rug spread out on the dirt floor and gave a deep sigh before continuing. "Jack's Eye turned. Gave 'em a list of everything you valued. They slaughtered half the neighborhood. Mischief John got busy too. Personally burned down the bridge. It was quite a party. Shall I continue?"

Frida watched Arthur carefully. He had taken the news in silence, but the storm brewing in his eyes spoke of the anger beneath his façade. He met her troubled gaze and swallowed a lump in his throat. He had a decision to make. "What about the rest of the team?"

"Most of the girls are with us," Tristan answered, "but the rest of the crew pretty much got gist of your popularity and made themselves scarce."

There was a pause. A brief moment of silence where Frida was frightened to know what came next. Her gaze didn't leave Arthur, not when she could see something big brewing in the depths of his mind. "Blue," Art said, nodding toward the boy, "go get us something to drink."

The boy held tight to Excalibur. "Come on, boss," he reproved, shoulders falling in disappointment. "I'm one of the crew."

"Blue!" Back Lack scolded his son's gall. Sighing, the boy stood and headed from the room with the sword. His father stopped him and took Excalibur to look over it himself. Knowing that Blue would still try to listen to what they said, Frida rose from her stool and rested her hand on the center of his back, nudging him along. "Let's go, Blue."