I shan't bore you with the—no-two-days-are-the-same-don't-you-just-love-chaos?—routine that permeated the rest of the year.
For too long.
~oOo~
By spring and with more warmth and sunshine (not to mention adorable baby animals that I was ruthlessly forbidden from making friends with) everyone was less fractious. Even Arthur was relaxing into the swing of things again, after spending several weeks agonising at the thought of more grassroots' conspiracies and spies. He went back to wearing his I-Mean-Business Breastplate™ and ordering everyone about with his usual mixture of 'I-feel-bad-for-holding-authority-even-though-I-am-the-most-obvious-man-for-the-job' and 'I-am-Arthur-therefore-I-am-always-right'. I could go on forever.
I insisted on being included in the excursions to fight in order to "record (Arthur's) glorious heroism in defence of the realm and its good Christian souls!" Much to the amusement and dismay of the knights, who thought it was too dangerous for 'a mere stripling' to be running loose, even on the fringes of a battle. Gawain would have stuffed me in armour had I not proved too narrow to fit into anything they had. Not that it mattered, but only Tristan and I knew about that.
The other thing that became a source of endless amusement were the catchphrases—mostly attributed to Arthur who seemed to be a masterful cliché generator—but also many more amusing contributions from the knights and the satellites such as Vanora, Verica, Amandus, Mato and Jols.
"Happy face!"
This was something we'd use to cheer up an angsty Galahad, whenever something had really upset him. It was of Cador's devising when we were given a day off in the summer to go and relax by the river. (And yes, I have seen all the knights and Arthur buck naked on countless occasions. It's often a pleasant view unless Bors was part of the 'special' moment.) Earlier in the day Galahad had attempted to woo a village maiden, only to be laughed at. To pull him from the sulks, he was thoroughly dunked by Cador and Dinadan after repeated commands to 'cheer up' had been ignored.
"It's a problem. It's like a baby's arm holding an apple."
I am not, nor shall I ever explain this. Sufficed to say, it relates to nakedness and group trauma that was later trivialised to prevent excessive psychological scarring. And if some slack-jawed moron mentioned the incident, then that moron would have to buy everyone else a round of drinks in penance.
"I aim for the middle."
The standard—and deeply infuriating—answer to any impossible cool feat of arms or skill performed in front of witnesses, drunk or sober. Conceived innocently by Galahad during archery practise, and used for all kinds of not so nice or innocent things ever since.
"Knights!"
Arthur's rallying cry lacked imagination, but it was an inexorable summons that worked like a puppeteer's strings on the spines of the Sarmatians. They all straightened and shared commiserating glances before preparing to die in the name of Arthur's moral gratification. And yes, the two exclamation marks are entirely justified. This, in turn, gave birth to our deeply ironic (and only when he wasn't within earshot) battle-cry:
"For Arthur!"
Because this wasn't for Rome, or any god, or the civilians, or ourselves. It was for Arthur and his crusade against every injustice, great or small, as he saw and judged them. Arthur was one of the most judgemental men ever, but it was mercifully countered by his ingrained respect for other people.
"Tristan, ride on ahead!"
This was Arthur's courteous and sensitive request for Tristan (and, by proxy, me) to go off headlong into death-traps, suicide missions and certain Christian martyrdom. This was to ensure the safety of the less monstrous members of our little band of heroes.
~oOo~
Other popular topics of group conversation orbited:
Bors' ever-impending-never-realised marriage to Vanora, despite her being pregnant for the second time already.
Bors' ability to state what we're all thinking, even if it makes an awkward situation stupendously cringe-worthy. Double points if Arthur doesn't understand what's going on.
Lancelot's never-ending attempts to cuckold everyone. An amusing recreational effort to undermine everyone's relationships, not to mention annihilate their confidence in their bedroom skills. It led to many attempts to rearrange his pretty features. Enough said.
Arthur's unshakeable faith. Okay, it's not a nice thing to mock a man's relationship with his god, but this was different. Arthur's faith was scarily sincere, and although he didn't try to convert us in any way, his standard answer to any kind of lucky escape or piece of good luck was God. When bad stuff happened, God was teaching us a lesson and Arthur would tell us what it was during a Round Table meeting.
Arthur's unshakeable groupies and growing status as a cult hero. This might be linked to our heroic exploits and amazing feats of bravery and valour in the face of ever-increasingly hopeless odds. Arthur was a bashful figurehead, modestly but feverishly passionate in swearing that we would protect everyone and everything from all harm.
Arthur's and Lancelot's burgeoning romance that would never, ever happen. I mean, come on, why else would Lancelot run around trying so hard to appear to be a studmuffin? (And yet still, some adorable idiots buy the act. *cough*—Gawain—Bors—*cough*).
~oOo~
Great goofs included:
Bors getting Vanora pregnant again. We have no idea how he did it, but they both survived and Vanora is two parts happy, one part mad as a scalded cat.
Lancelot trying to flirt with me. It only happened once. He tried (after too much wine) to upset Tristan. I took a knife to the crotch of his trousers and sliced along the inside seams so that he had to walk back to the barracks with his arse and tackle hanging out for everyone to laugh at (because chilly spring night = shrinkage). He took it in relatively good humour, but never tried it again.
Dagonet and Verica. This is an ongoing tragi-comedy that has yet to conclude. Verica trying to be subtle, and Dagonet being blind and deaf to even her most obvious attempts to incite his interest. Damn it, the man's just too nice and respectful! We couldn't find an impure thought in his great big skull. If he was a Christian, he'd have already been whisked off to the Vatican as a living saint. Bors swears that alcohol is the solution. Lancelot has offered to flirt with Verica. Galahad has offered to flirt with Verica. The Twins wanted to lock them in a room together for the night.
Gawain's hair. It frizzes in humidity. What country rains almost all the time? Britannia. One day it got so bad that Tristan and I were asked to braid it. Let's just say his mane ate three combs and spat out the remains while laughing. Gawain resembled an unhappy electrocuted lion until Verica finally hit upon the notion of combing a small amount of olive oil through his hair when it was wet. Now he looks like a Pantene advert and women seethe with jealousy.
Gaheris losing several teeth and one and a half fingers to a Saxon shield wall that he charged (alone) on foot, singlehandedly producing the greatest comic moment in battle for the whole year. He called it his finest moment. We called it high-energy assisted suicide.
Tristan (and me) being caught in flagrante by a visiting priest. In our defence, Kahedin sent him in on a really circuitous route to get to the chapel, which happened to go past the knights' smooching corner.
Kahedin breaking a barrel fully of wine. This ought to have led to mass shunning from everyone, but we settled for making him buy everyone a drink every night for a month. His tab with Vanora is still in the negative.
Arthur's tattoo. We waited until a massive Christian festival, got him spectacularly drunk and then had Bedwyr ink his shoulder with a Sarmatian pictogram signifying glory—an eagle with stag's antlers for wings. Not that he needed it, but it was the only one we could agree on. We told Arthur that it was an initiation ceremony and he was moved to tears of joy.
Every single time Galahad tries to get laid.
~oOo~
Almost a year after we first met, Tristan and I went to Bedwyr's house for a drink with Kahedin and Gawain. Bedwyr was the closest the knights had to an elder, so he was the natural conclusion. It did mean that we had to let him in on the little secret of my true gender, but he didn't mind. Barely blinked, in fact.
I cut a sidelong glance at Kahedin (the most likely suspect) who smiled winsomely at me as if he had no idea why I was giving him such a baleful look. This was a lie.
"Well, are you sure you want to do this?" he asked.
"Certain," they all looked happy. Even I felt happy. It was a good day.
"Alright then. Tristan, you have a knife?"
"How many would you like?" he asked, and we all reached for various blades.
Bedwyr cackled and shook his head. "Just one."
Tristan handed him a bone-handled knife with a leaf-shaped blade.
"Gawain, Kation, step forward."
We did so.
Bedwyr made shallow horizontal cut into the inside of Gawain's forearm and made the knight mark the skin over my heart with his blood. Then we repeated the exercise with my blood and Gawain's skin, all the while he muttered something too fast and low for anyone to hear. Clearly words of deep power and significance.
"Now you are family," Bedwyr declared loudly, tying a red cord around my right wrist.
"Sister!" Gawain whooped and, pulling me into a tight hug, spun me around.
"Brother!" I replied, laughing as he planted a smacker on my cheek before glaring with mock ferocity at Tristan and Kahedin.
"Now you'll have to treat her with respect due to her," he declared. "Or I'll bury my axe in you."
"Us? Respect?" Kahedin said in horror, even as he moved over to give me a congratulatory slap on the shoulder. "Gawain, you're barely human—what on earth does that make her?"
"A kitten!" Bedwyr said between whoops of laughter. He hadn't stopped since Gawain started yelling.
Tristan said nothing, but inclined his head respectfully as I walked over to him. "Lady of the Aorsi," he said.
"Man of the Halani," I replied, with equal solemnity.
"I would speak with your brother." He said and we went back to Gawain and Kahedin, who were still bickering for Bedwyr's amusement.
"… so if you think for one second that I'm going to let you enact such a plan, I will personally—oh, what do you want?" Gawain cut his threat short to glower at Tristan, as if expecting trouble from that corner as well.
"Permission to court your sister," Tristan said. I turned to look at him in astonishment—Tristan was being awfully formal about all this.
The others seemed to think so too, because they all fell silent and stared at him for a good long moment.
"No." Gawain said abruptly.
I sighed and already saw where this was going. "Gawain," I began, but my adopted brother (and it felt really nice to think of him as that) shook his head vehemently.
"I won't have it. You're my sister now, curse it, and—"
"And you know that we're already together. Just calm down and accept it. Besides, he isn't going anywhere. If he upsets me then you can finish off his remains after I'm through with him."
Gawain mulled this over as Tristan shot me a betrayed look. "Alright. But…"
"No 'buts'," I said. "Or I'll inform Brenna's family that you have dishonourable intentions regarding her body, not to mention converting her to your own religion."
Gawain looked like I'd slapped him. "You wouldn't."
"I think we can safely say that we've got each other covered on the dire threats front," I said cheerfully, slipping my hand around Tristan's waist and pulling him to me like he was a saucy wench. "So trust my judgement, and I'll trust yours."
"Deal," Gawain sighed, defeated.
Kahedin and Bedwyr were grinning appreciatively. "Nice job, kitten," Kahedin said. "Now let's go to the tavern, tell Vanora the good news and get smashed?"