The Girl Whose Name Was A Poem

VII. The Roman Bishop

*A.N: Hey everyone !  First of all, thank you to all the new readers (and the old too) for your votes, you rock! I wanted to point out that this whole story is something like a draft, so I might be changing the previous chapters as I correct them (I don't think I'll change the story itself, more like the narrating and such things). That said, here's another chapter with Dev and the gang. Oh, I also started thinking that perhaps I could write a few chapters, or some parts from the other characters POV, thought I haven't made up my mind. You can leave your comments on this choice, telling me if you like the idea or what hahaha Well, now, enjoy ! (I hope) :)

Years of patrols would never change the fact that Devnet was not a morning person. Anyone who attempted to make it otherwise, would be lucky if he got away with nothing but a few insults. The funny fact was that, after fifteen years of knowing her, the knights still insisted in waking her up at the crack of dawn. The brunette had no intention of rising until the last minute. She merely curled herself into a tight ball and kept held for dear life to her sleep, ignoring every single call that involved her name. Let them ready their departure without her.

She finally dragged herself to her feet when the men were breaking their fast. Stretching her limbs in a cat-like manner, she approached the fire and stole a loaf of bread from Bors right before he stuffed it in his mouth.

-Good morning, gentlemen-she greeted, gracefully skipping away when the burly man aimed to grab her ankle. She sat crossed legged between Gal and Gawain and took a wineskin filled with milk from the first

-Dearest-she looked at Gawain over the wineskin when she took a swallow-You have got to do something about your snoring. It’s like having a bear breathing in my ear. Very disturbing, I must tell you-. She returned the flask to Galahad and stood on her feet, breathing in deeply. The men simply stared with amused grins on their faces, rolling their eyes at her hussy eccentricity.

She took her time packing her things, while the other waited, leaning against their horses’ flanks. Lancelot rolled his eyes in her direction-Is her ladyship done yet?-.

Devnet took Cian’s reins in her hand and motioned for him to come closer, ignoring the mocking glare of the others. Lancelot sighted with resignation and kneeled beside her, locking the palms of his hands so she could take impulse to climb on her saddle.

-A lifetime spent in horse-back and half of sarmatian blood inside her, but she can’t mount on her own -Gawain pointed out the obvious, making her snort with distaste. Always the same joke. It was not her fault that Cian was awfully tall, when she was awfully small. It was like climbing a mountain. Ignoring the men’s chuckles, she supported her foot in Lancelot’s improvised stool and pushed herself up.

-At least she’s as skinny as a twig-the knight cleaned his hands on his clothes and made his way to his own mount, climbing as easily as breathing. Show-off.

***

According to Arthur’s reports, the bishop’s carrige was said to cross a well-known glade before mid-day, where the knights would receive him and escort him back to Hadrian’s Wall. Their commander sent Tristan ahead to scout the area for any chances of ambush. The others followed at an easy trot through a hilly landscape cut by the wind, making Devnet’s eyes water by its strength.

Tristan returned an hour past to report that he’d sighted the roman carrige approach the meeting place, and that he saw no signal of enemies. Arthur ordered them to a gallop across the countryside, in haste to arrive before the romans did.

At their speed, they left the hills behind in an exhalation, and entered a fringe of trees, leaves rustling above their heads. Ahead was a field of high grass that crowned the small valley they’d been headed to. Devnet pulled the reins of her stallion, standing between Galahad and Tristan, and looked at the creek below her. It was flanked at either side by woods, and crossed by a wide stream that flowed soundlessly. The early morning mist was floating low above the grass, giving the place a ghostly touch that made her skin prickle without explanation. The whole valley seemed to be holding its breath, waiting for something terrible to happen. Her uneasiness however, was cut short when Gawain spoke with approval-Ah, as promised, the bishop’s carrige-.