Albion's Days They Leave Us Wanting

Green as grass, red as blood

The travel from Talley Abbey to Camelot was rough in many ways but if Mary had to pick one it would have been the dishonor of it. The warlock Dilwyn was the highest-ranking member of court still alive and by oath required to do right by her. To him, this meant bending the knee to their enemy and handing her over to Uther Pendragon. Her relation to King Brandegoris was distant but loving, while Uther albeit of closer blood was the enemy, a butcher who would see her lands and people bend or burn. To break bread with him would be an insult to all those who gave their lives to defend their homeland.

To their credit Sir. Lucan le Boutellier and his company were kind men but to travel through her homeland with the banner of Pendragon would be a stain on her name should anyone see her with them. Pendragon a dark red with a golden crown pierced with an ornate steel sword ending in the decapitated head of a great red dragon. A red dragon with a “coincidental” resemblance to Ddraig Goch. Many Welshmen considered it an intentional slight against them and their great elder god.

The glory of Wales fled as they moved along the path. Beautiful hills, crags, and a myriad of lovely vibrant greens. The shifting, breathing life around them petered of to empty gray grasslands and dense woods littered with the shattered ruins of those they’d concord.

She was not looking forward to this at all.

“I understand this isn’t what you wish for my Lady but I know you’ll see this as being for the best” Dilwyn had read her guarded properly and left her to her thoughts and the view outside the carriage window. She kept her hands as they were, folded and holding the commoner’s clothes she had been given while her gown was being treated. The rough fabric kept her warm even if they didn’t fit her well, it was red and green but the shades were off and made her look sickly.

She would not give him the dignity of looking him in the eyes. Lady’s were supposed to be composed but she knew herself well enough that if she were to the look of contempt would be unmistakable “You’re a coward”

“I’m a coward who will live to serve his true king another day” No, you won’t. King Brandegoris will hear about this, I have no choice but you do and he will not be forgiving. Once given the chance she knew she would leave and find her own way to Conwy.

Carreg Cennen was in ruins and her request for her things was a fool's wish but even with nothing she would not bend, as she had learned when traveling in youth comforts are temporary and easily taken. There were more important things than fleeting comforts.

London was a sight. An unpleasant one but a sight nonetheless. The outskirts were filled with pitiful peasants covered in soot and the very image of dejected and desperate. Their conditions weren’t much better, the air was filled with chimney smoke. Strange and hideous horseless carriages would pass them every few streets once in the richer part of town. The people there looked frankly ridiculous and it took every fiber of her being not to press her face to the carriage window and gawk at them. The men looked formal and strange but no stranger than those she was familiar with back home the women however looked utterly ridiculous. They had a hump, an actual hump. There were still noblewomen in Wales who used the traditional wire hoop but this wasn’t that. The dresses appeared to be a straight line stopping at their rears then curving with enough space for another two women. They were unnecessarily frilly with layers upon layers, ribbons and bows and lace.

How do they wear those things?

The number of carriages grew the deep they got into the city slowing their movement to a crawl even with the royal bannermen. The city was filled with tall modern stonework, lavish markets, cheerful street children, working men and women running about, and strange people inside allies. The city had its charms and if the war ever ended she would defiantly have to come back and see all it had in its full slender.

Camelot for all its fan fair had nothing on Carreg Cennen… or it would have. Winding towers, long stretches of rampart, multiple think walls, and the immense main structure. Instead of sorrow anger filled her as the carriage pulled past the castle gates and up to the front of the grounds. She shouldn’t be here. Sir. Lucan, ever the gentleman opened the door for them and Dilwyn ushered her out before stepping out himself. Sir. Lucan was beamed with pride as he waved a hand, in a grand flourish, presenting the castle and what of the grounds they could see to them.

Sir. Lucan had done nothing to her and he did not deserve her sour disposition. She forced a small curt smile before turning her gaze back to the ground in front of her, folding her hands in front of herself, arms hanging limply. What am I to do with myself?

“I’m sure you’ll love it here in time” Dilwyn was elated, face lighting up with pure unadulterated joy. Another day my ass.

Mary couldn’t bring herself to respond past a nod and following him farthing into the grounds.

Perfectly cut shrubbery, several rowen trees, stone gazebos, and stairs. So. Many. Stairs. Carreg Cennen had stairs, they weren’t savages, but it was level ground, instead, here there was a set of steps leading up to another piece of even ground with a fountain or statue or a willow tree and seats carved of stone. Every twenty feet on the walls hanged the Pendragon banner and flags from every tower, a constant reminder she didn’t care for. However, she didn’t care for the nobles littering the grounds more. Sir. Lucan was greeted with kind smiles, curtsies, and half bow. She however was met with dirty looks, up-turned noses, and cutting eyes. Bold looks for women painted like jesters.

When they reached the castle’s first courtyard a very well-dressed man who held himself like a nobleman waited for them in tails. He was an older man, considerably more so than Dilwyn and Sir. Lucan, without a spot of color in his hair, loosening liver-spotted skin, and a face full of sagging lines from a life without joy. He was likely the majordomo, she’d never met one but she always imagined she’d recognize one when she saw one. And here he was.

“Sir. Lucan, his Majesty is in an urgent matter of state and asks that you escort Mr. Dilwyn to the throne room. Lady Marylyn is encouraged to accompany the other Ladies of the castle upon the tourney grounds”

Tourney, lovely. Mary had never cared for tourney’s, her mother had always praised them as the height of romance. Personally, she’d never seen it.

Sir. Lucan motioned for Dilwyn to follow him as he walked to the even more steps right of the entrance, without missing a beat he was on the knight's heels like a well-trained b***h. The majordomo, who had still yet to introduce himself, started walking to the second courtyard without her. Looking about her, she realized if she walked off she might be able to get to the main gate before anyone noticed. A few guards on the walls and balconies or by doors were the only people looking at her. Every other Saxon saw her as nothing more than a present. No, not now. Goodwill first, then when they let their guard down, I can rejoin my countrymen.

Starting at a quickened pace she followed the older man through the long passageway in between to large building. It was large enough for troupe movements but gracefully shaded allowing her to soothe her growing aggravation. Calm yourself, calm yourself. There was little of interest around to distract her from the walk in her muddy, blood batter slippers, falling apart under her or the gown that hanged limply on her body showing the nearly nothing she’d eaten since the attack. Gods, I’m a wreck. With time to think away from prying eyes, it wasn’t surprising that the other ladies didn’t like looking like her. I must look positively ghoulish.

The man stopped by a large archway, standing against the immaculate stonework. With one hand on his chest, the other came up from his side to motion towards the grounds.

She lifted her dress a bit as she descended yet again more steps stopping when she met the grass. The tourney grounds were filled with knights, ladies, squires, and all manner of people, all dressed in their best. I was a punch in the gut. She was expected to socialize with her keepers while looking, rightfully, like she had crawled out of her own grave. It was humiliating, she’d tried her best to scrub the ash and blood from her skin when they had stopped on the way but nevertheless she could still feel it all over herself like an indelible stain.

On the far end of the field was a large group of dirtied men looking at her like children presented with a new toy. Despite the distance, they made her uneasy. All she wanted was to return to Wales but in lieu of that, she’d settle for just being left alone.

The closest thing she could see to solitude was the stands of the jousting field. The sun unsurprisingly had still yet to show itself even as she walked across the grounds. Her senses were filled with the smell of horses, steel, and grass. For a time she was taken back to her youth watching the knights training as her father led her around on Nymera. She was a good horse. It was irrational but she hoped she had gotten free and now roamed with the wild horses in the forest and hills.

Once she reached the field she was happy to see she was right; the field only had a few people, two knights practicing and a couple ladies in the stands. Slowly she walked up to the fence around the track and leaned against it. One of the two knights had a beautiful Destrier draped in a well cared for caparison of black stars, diagonal red lines and. It was a truly beautiful animal and better cared for than the captured ones she’d seen from other Saxons. The knight atop the black beauty slowed in his approach, flipping up the visor of his helm to look at her unobstructed. He watched her with a smiling crinkly in his eyes as he approached.

“Hello, my lady. I do not believe I’ve had the pleasure” it was muffled but his intent was clear when he and the steed were within arms reach

“Unsurprising. I’ve never been east of the Powys before”

“Ah a Welshmen, what brings you to our beautiful lands?”

“The weather”

He laughed full and earnest, appreciating her sarcasm as though it were truly a compliment “Well then you’ll be pleased to know it’s unending”

“Truly,” she said faining excitement.

“Aye, mystics even say it will rain tomorrow” it was her turn to laugh as a giggle worked its way past her lips. “I have four more laps before Sir Penpingion is to have his turn. May I have the honor of showing you the grounds?”

“But then however am I to lose my way?” He laughed again, taking her response as a yes, walking his horse back before setting off in a trot.

Keeping him within her view she moves to the empty stands, sitting, as all good ladies should, in the second row to better look at the horse. As the knights prepared for another run she had to move about feeling the now familiar pressure against her back.

The bout was horribly unfair what with the dummy having a broom bound to in… and its inability to actually fight the lance piercing its straw being over and over. The second went the same as the first but you wouldn’t know that if you were to watch the other Ladies, they swooned, gasped, and clapped with every impact.

The third bout however was concerning. As the horses went into a trot they moved unlike themselves, on edge, heads jerking, and stomping. The knights did their best to calm them and even did a good job, soothing them enough for the final round. Until they didn’t.

After the fourth hit, they grew crazed, thrashing about and charging at full speed into the fencing. The other knight had the good sense to leap from the steed, rolling about in the dirt, while clutching his arm. The Ladies shrieked and rushed to the other knight. The one she had spoken to was not so lucky, instead pulling on the reigns trying to keep the Destrier under control. They met the guarding with a horrifying crack that she knew was more than wood.

She shot up as soon as she lost sight of them, barreling over the bench and guard in her rush to them. By the time she reached the tattered fencing others could be seen coming to his aid. Running purely off adrenalin she swung over the guard by only a hand, landing on the ground with a puff of dirt.

The knight was a terrible sight, leg not only broken with bone piercing thigh but also bleeding profusely. The horse was thrashing about on the ground dangerously close to him. Quickly she grabbed him by the arms of his breastplate, dragging him away from the steed. Once safer she pressed down on the wound earing a barely kept guttural howl.

The men she saw arrived as she was trying to slow the blood loss. “We need to get him to the medical tent”

“Careful!” was all she managed to shout as they hurried him to the largest tent marked with a red cross. They held him sloppily but well enough to hurry, if he was unlucky enough to have further injuries then they would undoubtedly be aggravated. Practically dropping him on the table once in the tent wouldn’t help either. “Get his armor off!” she said to no one in particular before ripping the leg of his trousers to get a better look at the wound.

“How bad is it?”

“I don’t-”

She interrupted already ripping a long strip of her gown “Bad, he needs a tourniquet” she didn’t care to wait for anyone to respond, the healers were all busy with other patients in just as bad condition. The only thing she still needed for the tourniquet was something to put in the binding… something like that broom. Ask for forgiveness, not permission. With one swift kick while holding the top it snapped nearly cleanly in half and once more over the knee for a manageable size.

“Hold his leg still,” she told the man by his legs while rushing back to him.

The better armored of the knights standing next to her looked at the strangely dressed one across from him as she focused on her ministrations. “Can you fix it?”

“I can but the bone is in the way”

“Mystic?”

“Yes” The knights were still trying to get the armor off as the man moved furtherer down the table towards her

“Purify water. I can get it back in but I can’t promise a clean set” Nearly there.

“I can fix it later” He shouted, running off in search of water to clean the dirt-covered hole in the other man’s leg.

She motioned to the noble still next to her “Take this” it took him a second to understand what she was talking about before grasping the tourniquet rod. With it out of hand, she inspected the wound closer than she’d had the opportunity to previously. Single break, nothing else inside or on. Still needs to be cleaned.

The mystic reappeared with a clay jug and with a nod pored and swirled it around as best he could. “Do it”

“Hold him down” all the men gathered around with exception of the noble grabbed a part of him. Once she was sure he couldn’t get in the way she placed her hands on the jutting bone and pushed.

The shrill grind of bone on bone filled their ears before she stepped back to give the mystic room. His adept hands managed to stop the bleeding and sped up the healing as the others continued to hold him down. All of their faces were straight but panic was in their eyes. They knew him, he wasn’t a random man with a horse and lance to them.

It was several minutes until an actual healer could come to his aid, a young woman who argued with the mystic as her hands took over.

She returned to her place by his side, looking over him and wondering if she would hold his hand as the other woman pushed and pulled with an unseen force. He passed out from the pain shortly after she arrived, laying limply but still with sharp breaths.

Too much. Too much, too little time. She worked on her own breathing when her breath was startled back to a punishing pace “Your royal highness! Lady Carmar! Your presence is needed in the throne room”