Guinevere (Book 1)

Chapter 5

Three months have passed since we watched our combined army march from Cameliard towards the battleground. As the battle wages, winter arrives in force. Ice and snow are relentless, covering the land in a blanket of white and blue. Blizzards are frequent and add to the already significant level of snow, reducing visibility to practically nothing. Thanks to this, we have received little news about what was happening on the battlefield. I cannot imagine how difficult it must be fighting in these frigid winds and deep snow. We have sent winter supplies to the front line; warmer clothing, blankets - anything we can spare that might help alleviate the deathly cold. It has the potential to kill as many as fighting can. My thoughts are always with them. 

The first fortnight or so was quiet and uneventful, but inevitably, this wasn't to last. The third week brought news that the battle had begun, and in the fourth week, we received the first group of injured warriors. Here at home, we tend to those too injured to rejoin the ranks on the battlefield, medics on the field deal with the lesser injuries. With every new week, more and more men returned to us, all with varying severity of injuries, from broken limbs to fatal wounds. Some sadly died on their journey back to us.

Thankfully, the vast majority have non-life-threatening wounds and I've heard many say this is a favourable sign. But there have been injuries inflicted that I never thought possible, and it has taken me a while to harden to the sight of them without spilling the contents of my stomach. The hardest part of all the duties is tending to a man you know is fated to lose his life, or will never live a normal life again. To say to a dying man that he is going to be alright, making the lie sound like the truth is almost unbearable. But if I were in their position, scared and in pain, I would rather hear the lie rather than know I was on borrowed time.

It has been a harsh awakening to the brutality and violence that is battle. I have concluded that the notion of glorious death in warfare was nothing more than an idea and the truth was neither glorified nor dignified. But it is still a testament to the courage of the men who willingly go to fight knowing the potential sacrifices they are making.

This morning I have been called to Father's solarium, before beginning my duties for the day. As I enter the room I find him reading a letter with deep concentration.

"Father, you wanted to see me?" I say gently so as not to startle him.

He looks up from a piece of parchment in his hand. "Yes, my dear. Please sit with me; I have just received this letter from the battlefield, written in King Arthur's hand".

"What news?"

"See for yourself," he replies, his tone giving nothing away.

Seating myself beside him, I take the letter and read it silently;

'King Leodegraunce, I write to you with good tidings. I can report that we have pushed the enemy back, after slaughtering a great many of them. The battle seemed anything but certain when we began our campaign; their numbers matched, maybe even exceeded, our own. However, due to the disorganised and barbaric nature of the enemy fighters, we now have the advantage. It took many weeks of strategic fighting to begin overwhelming them, not helped by the wretched weather conditions.

I will not bore you with details, but sufficed to say, we have pushed against their forces to the point where they will fall back. I cannot yet say when we will return; we want to be certain of their full retreat or surrender before the end. I estimate a month more, but I will send another messenger with confirmation as soon as the outcome becomes clear.

This letter is sent ahead of a further group of wounded. Although many are in better condition than the last, some are in great need of your attention. Some I fear for, but I am comforted that they will have the best possible care with you.