Knight of the Tenebral Sword

Miall returned to the fire and explained the priest’s absence. Branna shrugged so casually the scout speculated on what she had planned. Then Rhys joined them. The way the young noble smiled at the girl spoke volumes. She beamed back at him. They flirted shyly as dinner cooked, one or other glancing aside at intervals lest their chaperone object to their conduct.

Their antics made Miall want to laugh, which would have offended the youngsters greatly. They seemed keen to take advantage of the Templars’ absence, making her presence superfluous. The scout excused herself on grounds of a pre-prandial stroll, leaving them to their raptures. If nothing else, humans were a source of amusement.

The concoction Branna prepared would be ready before moonrise assuming Rhys did not distract her so much she burned dinner. Miall expected she would have time to cleanse herself before the evening meal. She found the ritual soothing and wished to rid herself of the scent of burning clinging to her hair. The scout hoped to slip away discretely until she noticed the hal-sakoi watching her.

Sir Taryet stood guard at the western side of the camp, a position affording the best view of the surrounds. The Templar had made an effort to conceal himself amongst the tree shadows at the edge of their small clearing. Odds were good he had been keeping a discrete eye on Rhys and Branna. He gave her a nod when she approached but made no effort to start a conversation.

The scout indicated the forest in what she hoped was a suitably significant gesture. The half-breed gave her another nod and turned his back. Miall went into the woods and repeated the clumsy rustling trick. She headed towards a small stream she had noted on her wood gathering expedition. Once there she sloughed off her clothes, concealed them in a bush and waded into the creek.

The round stones were slippery under her feet and the rivulet held little of the past summer’s warmth. Miall fished up handfuls of clay from between the rocks, scrubbing her skin with it before using some of her precious supply of soap. She considered being clean a necessity not a luxury. The scout sank slowly beneath the surface to rinse herself and savoured the sensation of the water rushing over her.

The icy liquid took her cares away leaving her calm and clear-headed. Miall released her breath in a slow, steady exhalation. She stayed under until she could no longer stand the blood pounding in her ears then bobbed up with a gasp and shook herself. The scout filled her lungs, relishing the clear air of the forest then turned to swim for the stream bank.

Sir Taryet stood stock still, half hidden in the undergrowth, one hand on a tree trunk for balance and his boots sinking into the mud. The light of the moons heightened the shadows rather than dismissing them. The contrast of light and dark made his craggy face harsh and threatening. He stared at her with eyes shadowed and unreadable.

A tendril of fear slid down her spine. The hal-sakoi was much larger than her. Miall’s hand instinctively reached for the knife strapped to her thigh. She never bathed without it. The blade was out of the sheath before the Templar’s expression changed. He back-pedalled and averted his gaze, stammering something she presumed was an apology.

Miall slid the hidden knife away. The situation reminded her strongly of the tale ‘the Cavalier and the Nymph’. Padraic had thought the story hilarious. She had not laughed at the time and was no closer to giggles now but the sense of threat from the hal-sakoi was fading. The clanking of armour heralded his retreat to a decorous distance.

“You were gone a long time and dinner is ready.” He almost growled the words, defensive and discomposed. “I was concerned you were lost or had run afoul of some forest creature. There are wolves in these woods. You should not have strayed so far from camp.” Sir Taryet stopped gabbling and marshalled his wits and his convent accent. “I offer my humblest apologies for my intrusion.”

“Apology accepted.” She replied crisply, her breath quick. The wind raised goose-pimples on her skin. “Now, if you would, please go away. I would like to get dressed.” The noise of leaves and snapping twigs immediately greeted her request. Miall waited a modest amount of time after the sounds had ceased before rising from the water and hurrying to her clothes.

The scout pulled out a clean shift from her pack, donned it and hastily resumed her clothes. Once suitably attired, she returned to camp and did not look at the hal-sakoi for the rest of the evening. He kept his eyes from her as doggedly. The incident might resolve into a fortuitous event, if through embarrassment and chivalry Sir Taryet did not supervise her excursions too closely.

That might not come to pass depending on his innate suspicion but a chance was as good as a risk, as gamblers said. His catching her in the nude had not mortified Miall. A naked body was natural. Nor had the Templar given her any impertinence or offered any threat. It was his sudden appearance that had scared her. She had been vulnerable.

In the course of her field work there had been other occasions when her virtue was at risk. Miall had killed in defence of her person and would do so again if she must. However, her training would not completely balance the odds against a much stronger opponent. The scout put the encounter out of her mind, silently thanking her mother’s advice about the knife.

Branna and Rhys had dallied enough to be self-conscious. The scout limited herself to a few harmless remarks praising the food and said she would turn in early. She did not mention her discussion with Brother Matteo as the priest was the clear leader of this expedition and Brethren had great respect for the chain of command. He would inform everyone in the morning as was appropriate.

In the mean time, she could do with some sleep. Miall looked forward to her first night’s rest in a season not interrupted by Padraic’s snoring or complaints as he stood watch. The scout, the young nobleman and the peasant girl slept curled around the banked fire, heavily swathed in blankets. Sir Taryet kept the hours and sleeplessly paced the camp.