A tale of song, swords, and flowers

Chapter 3

Lady luck, Florian decided, was a particularly irritating and  fickle mistress.

"Well old boy... You've gone and done it this time!" He grumbled ruefully, eyes flickering with no small amount of trepidation over The bandits camp. It was small and surprisingly organized, with several fires arranged in the rough shape of a horseshoe. Three small tents surrounded each blaze, the pattern only broken by a slightly larger Scarlet tent smack in the middle where he supposed the mastermind behind it all was lounging about. The close to two dozen bandits were  celebrating heartily, laughing, eating, drinking, and harassing the slightly less numerous Number of women sprinkled throughout their midst. He could see Henrietta, moving through the malay like a ghost, shoulders slumped and eyes down cast. He couldn't blame the poor girl for betraying him, The abused and scared thing that she was. He did find himself slightly irritated however, that she had decided to be valiant at the last second, saving his neck by revealing Tristan's existence. 

Some small part of Florian's heart wanted the knight to tell the bandit with the ransom notice to go fuck himself, but the more selfish part of him wanted to see Tristan galloping from the forest on his Noble steed  like the irritatingly handsome Godling he appeared to be. It was easy for Florian to picture the sight of him there, leaping from his horse Golden hair on fire with the first rays of the morning sun. He would make the exchange without a second thought, green eyes defiant even as a rusty sword was shoved through his chest. No Florian realized, shivering despite the warmth of the night. Tristan's end would neither be clean, nor merciful. The bandits would make an example out of him for all to see, a Noble night of Aquila begging for death on his knees. "Bloody fucking hell! I've got to do something!"

Clenching his jaw, Florian prepared himself for the pain that struggling against his bonds would cause, only to freeze as a figure broke away from camp and headed toward him. It was an older woman, with hair more salt than pepper and a severe limp dogging her steps.

"Are you alright there son?" She asked upon making it to his side, a bowl of some unidentifiable  liquid in her grasp. "Those assholes didn't rough you up too badly I hope?"

"No my good lady!" He replied, wincing in sympathy as she painfully lowered herself to the ground via the tree holding him captive. "I believe the ransom note has spared me the worst of their wrath for now... there's no need to worry about me!"

"Oh... so polite even caught up in this madness!" Gently the woman reached out and brushed a lock of hair from his brow. "You remind me greatly of my own son Hugo... May the gods protect his soul. here drink! It's not the clearest of water, but it should do the trick."

Carefully she held the bowl to Florian's lips, from which he drank greedily. Upon finishing its  meager contents he gasped out a grateful thanks, before sobering. "May I ask what happened to him, your son I mean?"

It was hard to tell in the weak glow of the far off fires, but Florian thought he saw her eyes glisten with a film of unshed tears. "Those bastards slit his throat and laughed while they did it! All three of my boys and my husband met their ends The same damn way! They broke my daughter's spirit in the worst way possible and held us hostage by the beating of my grandson's heart!"

Florian closed his eyes, chest tight with helpless rage. "I'm so sorry! I wish there were something I could do to stop them!"

"Aye!" The woman agreed, lips curving into a smile that was almost Ferrell. "If it wasn't for the wee ones over there, I'd go around and cut off there shriveled dicks myself!"

As if summoned by her words, the sharp cry of a young baby split the night, drawing Florian's gaze to a cart hidden in shadow. The contraption was more of a cage really, Iron bars surrounding a wagon full of small figures, far too  still and far too quiet aside from the baby.