Title: A Free Woman, With Choices
Author: Trillium
Genre: Drama/Romance
Rating: PG-13 (sexual references, off-camera violence)
Feedback: Constructive feedback very much appreciated.
Disclaimer: I do not own anything from the King Arthur movie, of course. Not even Tristan, sadly. Nope. (sobs)
Author's note: This story combines the King Arthur movie with the traditional legend of Tristan and Isolde. I took several of the plot points in the legend and adapted them to fit the movie characters. The story takes place about two years before the movie. Hope you enjoy it!
Chapter One
Isolde was in the kitchen when she heard it. There was a commotion in the courtyard of her uncle's big house, the clatter of hooves, scrapes of metal, men's voices shouting. She quickly righted the large iron kettle she was scrubbing, dried her hands, and hurried out into the warm fall sun, in time to see three armored men easing a fourth, wounded man off his horse. She picked up her skirts and ran forward.
"Is the Lady Isolde about?" shouted one of the men, Roman by his armor, dark-haired, with a craggy, handsome face.
"I am she," Isolde answered, trying to get a look at the man's injury. It looked like a nasty, deep sword gash to his right arm. Blood soaked his shirt and dripped into the dust of the yard.
"I beg of you, Lady...I will pay whatever is required..." continued the man in Roman dress, presumably the leader.
"Of course I will treat him," she interrupted. "Bring him this way." She led the way inside, heading for the little room off the Hall where she usually saw patients. The four knights followed, the wounded one on his feet, but just barely. His face- what Isolde could see of it behind his messy hair- was frighteningly pale.
"He was wounded scarcely an hour ago, but he is already feverish," explained the leader as they went. "Can you help him?" There was a note of desperation in his voice.
Isolde didn't answer. Together she and the knights got the wounded man onto the bed in the sick room and she examined him cursorily. His captain had been right about the fever- his skin was burning hot to the touch. Worried, she started to remove his armor, but it was of a style unfamiliar to her, certainly not Roman, and she couldn't do it fast enough. One of the knights, the bigger of the two, with very long hair, shouldered past her and undid the buckles himself, then stepped back with an apologetic shrug. Isolde nodded to him gratefully, then slit off the remains of the wounded man's right sleeve and the inadequate, blood-caked bandage that was already in place. Bending down, she assessed the wound. Behind the metallic odor of blood, there was another smell, faint but sharp and sickly. Combined with the sudden fever, it was telling. She straightened up and addressed herself to the captain.
"You were fighting the Woads?
"Yes.
"He was struck by a poisoned blade. We- they- use them sometimes." She looked away, embarrassed by her slip, though her words were entirely true. The alliance between her uncle's tribe and Rome was relatively new and fragile; not so long ago they had been enemies, and Isolde had treated her share of injuries inflicted by Roman swords and spears. Her own father had been among them, though he was one of those for whom her healing skills could do nothing. But she had agreed to treat the knight, and she couldn't go back on her word now. She tied a cloth very firmly around his upper arm, placed more bandages over the wound itself, and beckoned to the knight who had helped her with the armor.
"Here, press on this, hard," she instructed him, and went to her supply cupboard. She had antidotes for a couple of the most commonly used poisons, and selecting the one that was needed, she poured a little into a cup and returned to the bed. Fortunately, the man was still conscious.
"This will work against the poison," she said, putting an arm underneath his shoulders to raise him up a bit. He gritted his teeth with pain at the movement.
"Poison?" he asked hoarsely.
"That was one blade you shouldn't have gotten in the way of, soldier. Drink," she urged, holding the cup to his lips. He did, coughing a little as the strong-tasting liquid touched the back of his throat.
"Good thing I killed him," he muttered bitterly, and turned his face away from her. Isolde could tell he was in extreme pain, but also that he was practiced at hiding it. She looked at the long-haired knight.
"Keep pressing on that. I'm going to make him a poultice.
Back at her work counter under the cupboard she took out a mortar and pestle and began mashing together the herbs that would speed healing and prevent infection, adding more of the antidote to draw the poison out of the wound. As she worked, the captain thanked her profusely.
"We are all grateful to you, Lady. There was no time to take him anywhere else, and we had heard of your healing..." His voice trailed off, then belatedly he realized he had not introduced himself. "I am Arthur Castus, commander of the Sarmatian Knights at the Northern Wall. This is Gawain," he indicated the man pressing on the bandage, "Gareth has gone to see to the horses," Isolde looked around, surprised. She hadn't even noticed that the younger man had left the room. "And that is Tristan," he pointed to the man on the bed. "Will he live, Lady? He is one of my most valuable men.
"He should, and he will have use of the arm, too," Isolde reassured him, going back to the bed. Seeing that the bleeding had finally slowed to a trickle, she nodded her thanks and dismissal to Gawain and applied the poultice to Tristan's wound. "He is very strong, I can tell.
She wrapped clean bandage around Tristan's arm over the poultice, then poured him a little wine and added a few drops of sleeping medicine. It was very quick-acting, and no sooner had he drained the cup than his eyes began to close. He fought it, though, his eyes on his commander, and only gave in to rest after Arthur nodded a silent permission. Isolde carefully covered him with a blanket, then began to collect the blood-stained bandages and her other articles.
"It would be best if he did not travel for a while," she informed Arthur. "I can care for him here, of course.
Arthur seemed hesitant. "There will be no problem with you treating him, then?" he asked.
Isolde took a deep breath. It was still hard not to think of the Romans as enemies, but she would do what she had to do. "I agreed to help him, Commander, and I will keep my word. My uncle Agwisance trusts my judgment and will not interfere. Now, your companion should rest. If you would come to the kitchen, sirs, I can offer you a bite to eat.
When the three knights were seated at the kitchen table enjoying bread and soup, and she had ordered a boy to collect Tristan's things and put up his horse in the stable, Isolde returned to her patient. He slept peacefully, head turned to one side, taking deep, relaxed breaths. Color was already beginning to return to his cheeks, his fever was somewhat less, and his pulse beat strongly, if a bit slowly, in his neck. Yes, Isolde thought, he would be all right.
She stood looking at him for rather longer than she needed to. Was this her former enemy, then? It was hard to determine his age, but Arthur's comments and Tristan's own attitude indicated that he was an experienced soldier. How many people had he killed, she wondered? Anyone she knew? Did it make him sad, all this fighting, as it made her, or afraid, or didn't he care? Did it even make him happy? What did he look like when he smiled? So many questions. Cautiously, though she knew he wouldn't wake, Isolde reached out and touched a braided lock of his hair with her fingertips.
Tristan was indeed tough and hardy, and he recovered even more quickly than Isolde would have thought. For the first few days he was feverish, but Isolde stayed close by his side, dosing him daily with the poison antidote and changing the poultice and bandages frequently. By the fifth morning his fever had broken, and after breakfast, Isolde helped him into the courtyard to get some fresh air. As they left the Hall, she was astonished to see a hawk glide gracefully down from a high tree and land carefully on Tristan's good arm. He stroked the seemingly wild creature affectionately as they stared into each other's eyes, as if communicating in some secret language no one else could hear. Then, the moment was over, too soon for Isolde's curiosity, and the bird returned to its vigilant perch above. Seeing Isolde's surprised expression, Tristan just shrugged.
"She helps me scout," he said offhandedly, as if it were no great matter.
Shaking her head in amazement, Isolde got Tristan settled on a bench and went to attend to some matters in the kitchen. When she came out again not long after, she was even more astonished, for Tristan was standing in a corner holding his great composite bow. As she watched, he pulled the string back to full draw with the wounded arm, grimacing at the pain it caused him, held it there a moment, let it go, and then stoically did it again. Horrified, Isolde ran to him, grabbed his right hand unceremoniously, and checked the wound. Fresh blood colored the bandage, and his arm muscles shook with the strain.
"I won't have you undoing all the good of your recovery," she scolded him, taking the bow and urging him toward a bench. "Bow practice can wait a few days. I'm putting this inside," and without waiting for his permission she turned toward the Hall with the bow in her hand.
"Let me unstring it first," Tristan called after her. She stopped, and at that moment the hall doors opened her cousin Donal emerged and began to cross the yard. Isolde called to the young man, and looking pointedly at Tristan, instructed Donal to unstring the bow. Donal did so, grunting slightly at the effort of bending the tough wood, and handed it back to Isolde. Tristan didn't look too pleased, but he said nothing, and Isolde continued inside. She felt angry that he was risking himself with too much exercise too soon, but at the same time she wondered why it upset her so much. His health was quite good, considering what he had been through, and surely the choice was his. Why was she so worried about him?
In the doorway of the sick room she started to set the bow down, but then stopped, struck with a different idea. Going to Tristan's packs in the corner she removed the sword in its sheath, and taking it along with the bow, went upstairs to her own bed chamber and hid them both in her clothing chest. There, now she would decide when he practiced next.
Or so Isolde thought. Only a few hours later, when she needed something from her chest, she discovered to her amazement that sword and bow were both gone. She had told no one where they were, and she had not thought that Tristan even knew which of one of the upstairs chambers was hers. Cursing under her breath, but also somehow delighted at his cleverness, Isolde went downstairs to the sick room, and sure enough, there was the bow, propped neatly against the wall next to the rest of Tristan's belongings. He himself was not there, nor was the sword in evidence.
Curious, Isolde went to look for him. She found him easily, sitting in the corner of the courtyard that was shaded by a big oak tree, carefully sharpening his sword. When she was several steps away, he looked up at her and drew the long, curved blade deliberately over the whetstone. It scraped ominously, and the look of warning in his eyes was obvious. Suddenly sobered, Isolde took the hint. She would never try to part him from his weapons again.
But, taciturn, moody, and possibly dangerous as Tristan was, Isolde found that she liked him. He spoke seldom, but what he did say betrayed keen intelligence and astute observation of the world around him. He smiled even less, but when he did it was contagious. He cared for few, but was intensely devoted to the hawk, which never strayed far from the house while Tristan stayed there. His horse also commanded a measure of his affection, and of course his armor and weapons, which he maintained lovingly, even obsessively. Obviously, battle was his life, and it was all too probable that someday, it would be his death as well.
The time inevitably came when Tristan was sufficiently recovered to return to the fort at Hadrian's Wall where his troop was based. On that day he armored himself, saddled his horse (he insisted on doing it himself), took the provisions Isolde gave him, thanked her, and rode away into a chill November wind. His sword was at his back, bow and arrows at his side, and the hawk rode impassively on the pommel of his saddle. Isolde watched him from the gate till he was out of sight, dry leaves swirling around her, whipped into a frenzy by the wind. She thought regretfully that, most likely, she would never see Tristan again.
Fall deepened and turned to winter, which slowly warmed into spring. It was in that season that messengers came from far-off London, sent by the Roman governor Marcus Severus. He had heard, they said, of Isolde's beauty and skill in healing, not to mention the powerful position of her uncle among the local Britons; and so he wished to request Isolde's hand in marriage.
It was clearly a political match, but it could be a very advantageous one. Isolde, eager to help bring peace to her homeland and after consulting with Agwisance and virtually everyone else whose opinion she respected, sent the messengers back bearing her compliments to Marcus Severus and her acceptance of his proposal.
So it was decided, and in the summer a military escort was sent to bring Isolde and her retainers safely to meet her future husband. Chapter Two
"Isolde, I made you something." Isolde looked up. It was Bragwaine, her maid, assistant in healing, and confidante. She was carrying one of the small clay bottles that they stored medicines in.
"What is it?" she answered, distracted. She was packing her saddlebags with the things she would need most immediately during her journey to London. Her escort was slated to arrive that very day.
Bragwaine sidled closer, lowering her voice conspiratorially. "For your wedding night," she giggled. "To make you passionate, see?" She held the bottle up so Isolde could get a better look at it.
"Bragwaine..." Isolde turned away, blushing. She didn't want to think about that, not now. But professional curiosity got the better of her. "What's in it?" she finally asked.
"Oh, this and that," Bragwaine said casually. "Wild oats, fennel, fava bean. Mandrake, of course. I boiled it down a lot, so it should be quite strong. You can add it to something, if you like. There's enough for both of you.
Isolde didn't look at her, newly embarrassed by the list of libido-enhancing ingredients, and the suggestion that she should share it with her fiance. It seemed indecent to contemplate doing such a thing when she had not even seen his face yet.
"I'm sorry," Bragwaine apologized softly, noticing Isolde's discomfort. "It's just that...I thought you might...You don't have to take it if you don't want it.
Isolde sighed. The maid's heart was in the right place, and it would be rude to just refuse her efforts. "I will take it. Thank you." Bragwaine nodded and retreated to the window as Isolde added the small bottle to her saddle bag. She doubted she would ever use it. She had mixed these "love potions" herself before, and they only worked when the drinkers were attracted to each other already, in which case they were unnecessary anyway. You couldn't make something from nothing, she reflected with another deep sigh.
"They're here!" exclaimed Bragwaine suddenly. Going to the window Isolde saw a short column of riders quickly approaching the house, throwing up dust in their wake. So the time had come. She was about to turn back to her saddlebag when she was startled by the cry of a hawk. As she watched, the bird came circling down and one of the riders held up his arm for it to land. Suppressing a grin, Isolde squinted in a vain attempt to make out more details, but she was already quite sure. Tristan. It just couldn't be anyone else.
Isolde was quite correct. There were ten mounted knights led by Arthur Castus himself, which drove home for her both the importance of this marriage and the possible dangers of the road they would travel. In the courtyard Isolde recognized Gawain and Gareth, both of whom who greeted her with smiles. Tristan stood nearby, cleaning his fingernails with his knife point and solemnly observing the bustle of saddling horses and loading last-minute items into the two wagons. When he saw her he gave a companionable nod that was was, as Isolde remembered, quite a friendly greeting by his standards.
"Is your arm well, Sir Tristan?" she asked him.
"Thanks to you," he acknowledged. He circled it to demonstrate the range of motion, which appeared to be complete.
"Good," she answered. There was a pause, as she considered what to say next. Finally, she settled for just blurting out what she meant. "I am glad to see you again.
He did not immediately reply. Isolde, feeling flustered at her apparent inability to communicate with him, was starting to turn away when a hint of a smile crossed his lips.
"Likewise," he said.
"Mount up!" Agwisance's voice called from across the yard. The journey was beginning.
It would take about a week to reach the place where Marcus Severus and his entourage would meet them, and then another five days or so after that to reach London. Isolde had never traveled so far before, and by the end of the first day her thighs and buttocks felt like they had been beaten to a pulp by the constant motion of the horse beneath her. Waking up the next morning was even worse- her legs were so stiff and painful she could barely stand up straight. She managed to force herself erect as she left the tent she shared with Bragwaine, praying no one would notice her condition, but as she approached the breakfast fire she stumbled on someone's saddle lying on the ground and fell to her knees. Trying to salvage what was left of her dignity, she got up again, hissing softly in pain, and practically collapsed onto a convenient tree stump.
"Saddle-sore?" the knight named Lancelot asked sympathetically, passing her a bowl of porridge with some scraps of meat.
"Yes," she grimaced, accepting his offering gratefully. "It's more awful than I could have imagined- how do you stand it, riding all the time?
"You get used to it," Tristan answered as he approached the fire. He served himself from the kettle, threw a piece of meat to his hawk, who had landed nearby, and sat down to eat.
"You could ride in the wagon," Bragwaine suggested. She was sitting near Lancelot, her glances toward him frankly admiring. The knight didn't look as if he objected at all.
"And admit defeat? No, thank you. I'll ride till my legs fall off." She scowled bad-temperedly and took a large bite of porridge.
"You'll do fine, then," Tristan commented, with what she could have sworn was a chuckle.
"What's on the road, Tristan?" asked Arthur from across the fire, and Tristan reported concisely around mouthfuls of his breakfast. Isolde was beginning to see why Arthur had referred to Tristan as very valuable, for he used him extensively as a scout. Tristan stood out as an excellent rider even among his fellow cavalrymen, and with his own keen observations and the hawk to assist him, there was little that escaped his notice. As the talk turned to other things, Isolde discreetly massaged her legs and resolved again that she would not show weakness by riding in the wagon. But that didn't keep her from gritting her teeth in pain as she mounted, and looking enviously at the knights swinging easily into their saddles, even Tristan, who had already ridden so far that morning.
For the second day, and then the third, they rode uneventfully. Isolde was pleased to find that her saddle-soreness really did improve; by the end of the third day it was down to a bearable dull ache. She was rather enjoying the ride by now: it was exciting to see new places, the weather had been good, and she was enjoying the company. The object of their protection she might be, but Isolde resisted thinking of herself as more important than, or even different from, the others. She had made a special effort to speak to each of the knights individually, at least for a brief moment. There was Lancelot, Arthur's second-in-command, devastatingly handsome and more than a little arrogant; Bors, loud, good-natured, often crude, always telling stories about his children, of which he had ten at the northern fort; Dagonet, the biggest and strongest of the group, not extremely intelligent but with a caring, gentle temperament; Gawain, practical to the bone, always willing to discuss strategy, tactics, and past battles- or the conquest of women, when he thought that none of that gender could hear him; and the sarcastic Galahad, cautious Peredur, blustering Erec, serene Gareth, and the capable squire Jols. They spent much of their time teasing and jibing each other relentlessly, which Isolde thought great fun to listen to. There were none of them that she really disliked.
Still, she felt a particular attachment to Tristan. From the very beginning she noticed that when he was not scouting he usually rode near her. At first it made her nervous; he was so hard to talk to, yet it seemed rude to just ignore him. Soon, though, she realized that he didn't really expect conversation, and after that, things became easier, and they did find things to talk about. He described the endless plains of Sarmatia far to the east ("A man could ride forever," he said), told her how he had trained the hawk, and listened intently to her talk about the properties of plants; but just as often they rode in silence. The others in the group noted their companionship, unusual for the quiet, inscrutable knight, and attributed it to Isolde's saving of Tristan's life. Bors commented that it was good to see that Tristan was, in fact, human enough to be grateful for something. Would he now be proving his humanity in other ways as well? Tristan retorted coolly that what he would really be grateful for was the chance to kill Bors someday, and the usually irrepressible Bors subsided. No one really thought Tristan would do anything to Bors, but it was clear that his unpredictable, dangerous side was still firmly in place.
On their fourth morning of travel Tristan returned from scouting with bad news. He had seen a party of about ten Saxons to the east, armed and trying to hide in the woods. Most disturbingly, they were far from any places Saxons had been known to land in the past. A tense discussion ensued, and it was decided that they must be an advance party for some larger force, and therefore they should be gotten rid of before they could bring back a report. Peredur and Galahad alone were left with the column while the other knights rode off to take on the Saxons.
That was a nerve-wracking time for everyone. They were terribly vulnerable with only two of the knights present, and Isolde kept jumping at the sound of every snapping twig, expecting to see a horde of savage Saxon warriors come hurtling down upon them. Fortunately, it never happened. Most of the other knights returned in the late afternoon. They had had the advantage, as the Saxons were on foot, and so they had killed them to a man. The knights' injuries were limited to assorted bruises and cuts; Isolde stitched one on Dagonet's scalp that bled profusely, though it was not serious.
Tristan, however, did not return with the others. He rode all day looking for the larger force that they all were sure had to be there somewhere, but when he returned to camp late, muddy, and exhausted, he had nothing to report. He unsaddled his horse, ate some food before the fire, then wrapped himself in his cloak and slept where he was, not even bothering to unpack his bedroll.
Chapter Three
The next day was intensely foggy, and they rode slowly, straining eyes and ears for the slightest hint of anything unusual, but again they found nothing. In the evening they reached a small garrison town, where they could spend the night. Relief was palpable in the air as they rode through the gate and into the protection of the thick, stone walls. There was not much in the way of accommodations available, but the commander showed them to a disused barrack building where Isolde and the other three women were given one room and Agwisance and his servants the other. Across a small yard from the barracks was a stable where they put up the horses, but the knights and the wagon drivers were to sleep outside, as always. Food was prepared, and now that they could relax inside walls guarded by someone else, the atmosphere quickly became festive. Agwisance produced wine from one of the wagons, the fire was built up high, and some of the townsfolk and soldiers joined them to exchange news, jokes, and songs.
As the sun went down behind the horizon, visible clearly for the first time that day, Isolde was sitting on an overturned bucket finishing her meal. Bragwaine, beside her, was done eating, and was carefully adjusting her hair, assessing her appearance in the tiny mirror that was one of Isolde's most prized possessions. Unlike Isolde, she had changed into skirts for the occasion, and she kept glancing across the fire at Lancelot, who was deep in conversation with Gareth and one of the soldiers from the garrison.
"You still fancy Lancelot, don't you?" Isolde asked, taking another bite.
Bragwaine twitched her skirts and grinned. "Yes. Or Gawain." she added thoughtfully, casting her eyes around the courtyard for the other object of her considerable affections.
"Well, I'm sure either of them would be willing to give you a tumble," Isolde commented, then added slyly, "Or even both of them." Bragwaine blushed at the thought and Isolde smiled to herself. It wasn't often that she was able to embarrass her brazen friend, but it was amusing when she managed it. "Go on, Bragwaine. Have fun.
The maid laughed girlishly, gave Isolde's hand a little squeeze, and crossed the courtyard to make her conquest. Or conquests, just as likely. Isolde shook her head ruefully and licked the last of the meat juices from her fingers.
She noticed that Bragwaine had left the mirror on her bucket seat. Moving slowly, thoughtfully, she picked it up and took inside to the women's room in the barracks.
It was nearly dark within, the only light coming through a small window high in the wall, and no one else was there. Isolde returned the mirror to her saddlebag, which sat on the ground next to the bunk she had claimed. As she carefully arranged the other items to best cushion the precious mirror, her hand touched a small clay bottle. Ah, yes, Bragwaine's "love potion". Isolde had almost forgotten it was there. She drew it out and looked at it for a long moment in the shaft of dim light.
The unassuming object was a sharp reminder for Isolde of what lay at the end of this journey. This wasn't just a cross-country jaunt with no purpose; she was going to marry Marcus. It surprised her to realize just how little she had thought of the trip in those terms. Perhaps she had never quite admitted to herself what exactly, specifically, it all meant. There was the politics, of course, the chance to help bring peace to Britain, but there was also the more personal aspect; and from thoughts of that Isolde had always unconsciously recoiled, pushing them down to a dark corner of her mind, burying them in lofty ideals of alliance, harmony, and an end to warfare.
Duty was duty, she reluctantly concluded, and if she wanted the expected alliance she had take the appealing with the not-so-appealing. But to try to make herself "passionate", as Bragwaine put it? That she would not do. Passion should spring from natural inclinations, not clever concoctions of herbs, and the thought of resorting to that artifice to please a man she had never even seen yet was repulsive to her. That is, if the potion had any effect at all. Thoroughly disgusted, she uncorked the bottle and prepared to pour it out on the ground.
But something stopped her. Maybe it was just that Bragwaine had worked so hard to make it, but it suddenly seemed a shame to waste the substance entirely. On a sudden whim, Isolde went outside to the table that had been pulled into the courtyard for the food and wine. Working quickly she found a skin with only a couple of cups worth of wine left in it, and under the shadow of the table, added the contents of the clay bottle. There, it was done. She would go to her wedding night with her true feelings intact, whatever they were, and hopefully, someone would get a pleasant surprise tonight.
"Isolde, there you are!" Agwisance exclaimed, coming towards her. "There are a couple of musicians here from the town. Why don't you get your harp? Everyone would love to hear you play. Go on, lass, get it from the wagon.
"I will, Uncle," Isolde agreed readily, grateful for the distraction, and hurried to the far side of the vehicle. Once in its shadow, she threw the small bottle on the ground and crushed it to pieces under the heel of her boot.
The three musicians, including Isolde, played till their fingers were sore. It was great fun to compare versions of songs, exchange new ones, and improvise their own. The audience was certainly appreciative, yelling out requests, clapping, singing along if they knew the words, and generally having a good time. Isolde grinned when Gawain picked Bragwaine up and whirled her around the open space in an impromptu dance that left them both laughing breathlessly. Then Bors came up to the musicians' table and tried to teach them a song from his homeland, which they eventually played to his satisfaction, though not without some difficulty, as Bors couldn't carry a tune at all to demonstrate. His efforts had the other knights teasing him and suggesting he take lessons from his wife, who apparently could sing very well. The mention of Bors' wife set off the inevitable series of lewd jokes about who had really fathered his children, with Lancelot being the favored candidate. The whole exchange was carried out in a very practiced manner, with lots of mock rancor and no real ill will at all.
Finally, the musicians took a break. Isolde rested at the table, harp beside her, content just to sit there watching and listening to the merrymaking around her. In a way, she wanted this happy evening never to end. But of course, it would have to, and the journey would continue, and eventually they would reach their destination. A shadow fell across her thoughts again.
"Thirsty?" She turned and saw Tristan behind her. Without waiting for an answer he poured a cup of wine from the skin he held, set it in front of her, and sat down on the other end of the bench where he poured for himself. Isolde sipped the wine gratefully. That was kind of him.
"I wondered if I'd ever get to hear you play," Tristan said, gesturing toward the harp.
"How did you know I do?" Isolde asked, puzzled. The harp had been packed securely in a wagon for the entire trip, and thinking back to last fall, she didn't recall ever playing while Tristan was around.
"Callouses on your fingers," he supplied matter-of-factly, taking a drink of wine.
Isolde looked at her fingers, shocked and impressed by his powers of observation. She didn't play as often as she used to, so the callouses were subtle, and when could Tristan have gotten a good look at her hands?
"You don't miss a thing, do you?" she asked, shaking her head.
"Not if I can help it.
They sat in silence for a moment. Then, impulsively, Isolde pushed the harp towards Tristan. "Here," she urged him. "Try it.
"Are you sure?
"Yes, yes. Here, put it between your legs, like so. And you pluck the strings like this." She laughed at his discomfiture as she reached around him to demonstrate. It was quite a change from his usual imperturbable self. Bravely, he persisted, allowing Isolde to teach him a couple of simple chords before he finally handed the harp back to her.
"I'll never be a harper," he said ruefully.
They were quiet again, sipping their wine. Isolde idly plucked a few notes from the harp strings, lost in her thoughts. She found herself admiring Tristan's elegant profile as he gazed into the fire, and then her eyes dropped to his shoulders, and down to his strong, capable hands. How would they feel touching her, she wondered? And his lips, what would it be like to kiss him? Very pleasant, she was sure. She would very much like to sit on his lap and...catching herself suddenly, she tried to suppress such thoughts, but found she couldn't. It was shocking how swiftly this new mood had come upon her. She felt flushed and hot, quickly drained the rest of her wine to distract herself, and came to an arresting realization.
The wine. That was it. With a muttered curse she grabbed for the wineskin Tristan had poured from, almost knocking the harp over in her haste. Her fears were confirmed. It was the same skin she had put the "love potion" in, now limp and empty.
Tristan looked at her questioningly. Intensely embarrassed but unable to stop wanting him no matter how hard she tried, Isolde struggled for an explanation that would not sound ridiculous.
"I think...well...there may have been something in that wine." She broke off, unable to continue, or even look him in the eye. He just nodded knowingly.
"I suspected so." Slowly and deliberately, perhaps giving her a chance to avoid him if she chose, he slid a little closer and rested his hand on her leg under the table. Its warmth soaked into her, and she tensed, trying to restrain herself from moving closer and throwing her arms around him.
"Are you afraid of me?" Tristan asked.
"Yes," Isolde blurted, then quickly corrected herself. "Well, no, not exactly, it's just that..." By Heaven, she couldn't possibly explain. She was afraid, but she also wanted him more than anything. And what if someone saw them? Where could they- she looked across the courtyard.
"There is no one in the stable right now," she found herself whispering.
"True." Tristan agreed. His hand moved on her leg, a firm, confident caress. "Shall we see if the horses' hay is suitable?
They rose from the table together.
Chapter Four
In the predawn darkness Lancelot pushed open the creaking stable door. As the first one up this morning, he might as well check on the horses. His lantern cast a small pool of yellow light as he moved down the line of stalls, greeting each horse in turn. At the last stall, though, which he had thought to be empty, he stopped in amazement. The lantern swung perilously from his fingers for a moment until he got a better grip on it. He opened his mouth to say something, closed it again, then finally found suitable words.
"Dawn's soon," he warned tersely. As he turned and walked away, Tristan smiled to himself and pulled Isolde a little closer. She sighed and smiled in her sleep.
To his credit, Lancelot said nothing to anyone about his early morning discovery. The women who shared Isolde's room must have guessed- at least the general nature of the incident, if not the details- but they gave no sign of it, apart from some significant looks. Undoubtedly they wondered how this would affect the arrangement which was the purpose of their journey, but as it turned out, it did not. Isolde was resolved to continue. Pleasant the night in the stable had certainly been, but it hadn't been intended to happen. And who knew what Tristan felt today? He was even more quiet than usual, almost sullen, though he lavished attention on his hawk at breakfast before riding ahead of the party to scout the way. Isolde saw little of him all day, and she rode stony-faced, playing through in her mind all the scenes of the previous night and all the ways it could have gone differently. She could have poured the potion on the ground. She could have politely returned it to Bragwaine, who would certainly have found a use for it. She could have been more careful about what she drank. She could have not gone into the stable with Tristan. She could have declared to everyone that morning that she had changed her mind and could not continue the journey. For that matter, she could declare the same thing even now. But she did not. She continued, despite her growing, nagging feeling of wrongness about the whole thing.
In the evening, after hearing Tristan's report, Arthur announced that they would meet Marcus Severus and his escort the next day, probably relatively early. Agwisance was delighted that they had made such good time, but Isolde could not share his enthusiasm. Her doubt had only increased since morning, and now it tormented her, almost to the point of making her physically sick. At night she tossed restlessly for what seemed like forever, unable to sleep. Finally, she could stand the stifling tent no longer, and stepping carefully over the sleeping Bragwaine, she went out into the night air. Some small talk with whoever was on watch might relax her.
She had gone several steps toward the fire before she realized that it was Tristan there, silhouetted beyond the flames. She considered just going back to the tent, but he had already seen her, and she really didn't want to be rude, though she was afraid this would be terribly awkward. She approached slowly, hesitantly.
"I couldn't sleep," she said softly when she reached him.
"Neither could I," he answered.
"But you're on watch, aren't you?
He nodded. "Sleeplessness is sometimes an advantage," he smiled, making Isolde feel just a little better. They stood together, looking out into the night. Finally, Isolde broke the silence.
"I'm sorry, Tristan," she confessed.
"For what?
She took a deep breath and steeled herself to explain as best she could. "For...for last night. It was my fault, there was...well, there were some herbs in the wine, a...a sort of potion, I guess you could call it. I was very careless. It...it wasn't supposed to be for us. I really don't even know what I meant to do. Can you ever accept my apology?
He was quiet for a long moment. Eventually, when he did speak, he didn't answer Isolde's question.
"You regret it?" he asked.
She had to pause to think about that. "No," she began slowly. "I don't. Not at all. But...there is the alliance, and I have my duty, you understand?
He laid his hands on her shoulders and turned her to face him. His dark eyes searched her face. "I envy you," he said.
"Why?" she asked, puzzled by his sudden changes of subject.
"I must do whatever Rome orders. You are a free woman. You have choices.
"Yes," she sighed. "And I have made my choice. But I have no regrets. It was wonderful," she confessed, a little shyly. He drew her into his arms and hugged her, her cheek pressed to the hard metal of his armor, his hands stroking her back comfortingly. When he spoke again, it was in a whisper so soft it was barely audible.
"I needed no potion, Isolde. Not for you.
In the morning Isolde stepped out of her tent to find a light, cold drizzle falling. Out of habit she looked for Tristan, but he did not appear at the fire to eat, and as they began to strike the camp there was still no sign of him. It surprised her, for she had thought they would not travel as far that day. Finally, she worked up the courage to ask Lancelot about it.
"Will Tristan be scouting long, do you think?
Lancelot shrugged. "Who knows? He went out very early," the knight made a vague gesture to the north and continued to tack his horse.
Confused, Isolde looked in the direction he had indicated. "North? But...we are going south, aren't we?
He finished tightening the girth and turned to her, his expression serious. "We meet Marcus Severus before midday, probably, and since he has his own escort, we will return to the north.
"Then...he is not coming back here?" Lancelot shook his head and Isolde felt a cold knot settling in her stomach as she realized what that meant. It had to happen eventually, but today? She wasn't nearly prepared for this yet.
Lancelot studied her closely, gauging her reaction to the news. "Lady," he asked curiously, "do you marry of your free will?
"I do," she answered firmly, wondering at his sudden formality. "It is necessary.
"Necessary for what?
"For peace, of course. To cement the alliance between my people and Rome.
Lancelot sighed deeply and propped his hand on his forehead for a moment. When he raised it again, he spoke formally and carefully, and Isolde sensed she was about to hear some bad news. The coldness in her guts began to spread.
"I do not know how much you know of these matters, Lady, so forgive me if I state the obvious, but- Rome is leaving this island. The Saxons press us more every year, and Italy itself may have need of reinforcements. We will not stay much longer- two years perhaps, three at the most. And then...
"Then what?" Isolde could barely speak. Her mouth was dry and wooden, and she felt sick.
"Then Marcus Severus will return to Rome, or perhaps to some other part of the Empire. He will undoubtedly take his household with him." Lancelot paused significantly before driving his point home. "Including his wife.
"Thank you, Lancelot. I will remember your words," she managed to say, and hurried away towards the wagon before anyone could see the tears in her eyes.
Chapter Five
Many were privately surprised when Isolde elected to ride in the wagon that morning, but only Bragwaine actually asked her about it. Isolde told her maid shortly that she wished to think and pray alone before meeting Marcus, and Bragwaine accepted the lame excuse even though she of all people should know that Isolde was not in the habit of praying too often. From inside the wagon Isolde could hear Bragwaine conversing in low tones with Agwisance, but neither of them questioned her further, for which she was grateful. Her silent tears felt shameful to her, but she couldn't stop them. In the space of one short conversation her whole world seemed to have come crashing down at once- her treasured dreams of peace shattered, Tristan gone without even a goodbye, and her planned marriage looking more bleak than ever.
At first she tried to convince herself that Lancelot couldn't possibly know as much as he said he did about Rome's official strategy. For all his cocky assurance, he was only a single knight, a conscript at that, like all of Arthur's men. But the more she thought about it, the more she decided that his words had the ring of truth. He had served at the northern frontier for years, so his information about the Saxons was certainly reliable, and as Arthur's highly trusted second in command, he probably knew everything his superior did about military matters in the larger world.
And that didn't even begin to address the issue of Tristan. Already she missed him more than she had thought possible. Without knowing it she had come to expect and depend on his quiet presence, and only now that he was gone did she realize how empty things seemed without him.
After a while she became aware that the column was stopping, and over the general noises of horses and creaky wheels she heard first Agwisance, and then Arthur, exchange pleasantries with a great, booming voice she did not recognize. A second later, Bragwaine appeared at the back of the wagon.
"Isolde, Marcus is here! Already! Come on!
Slowly, resignedly, Isolde moved out from among the bundles where she had been sitting and scooted closer to Bragwaine. The maid's tone instantly altered when she saw Isolde's face clearly.
"Have you been crying?" she asked, laying a sympathetic hand on Isolde's cheek.
Wordlessly Isolde nodded, and then, in a burst of love and affection for her friend, took her into her arms for a fierce hug. "You have always been an excellent friend to me, Bragwaine. Thank you," she sniffed. They held each other for a moment, and then Isolde broke the embrace, pulled herself to her full height, and walked around the wagon to meet her future husband.
The drizzle had stopped, and they were in full sun at the edge of a wood. Her familiar escort stood facing a new one consisting of soldiers in the typical Roman uniforms. Agwisance and Arthur stood talking to a prosperous-looking man in a toga, who came smiling to meet her when she emerged.
So this is Marcus Severus, she thought. He was a square-built man, not too tall, with an earnest, friendly expression, a large nose, and the booming voice she had noticed earlier. But given Lancelot's words of that morning, Isolde could not look at him without thinking that soon he would be gone from Britain, and all his ilk with him. And where would that leave her? Oblivious to her conflicted thoughts, Marcus bowed to her and kissed her hand.
"Lady Isolde, I cannot tell you how delighted I am to meet you at last. I must say you are every bit as beautiful as you were rumored to be- more even! And so talented too, I'm told. Your acceptance of my proposal has given us all such great hope for the future! Come, look here, Lady, I have arranged for..." Numbly Isolde followed as Marcus began to point out the features of his own escort and traveling accommodations, but as he rattled extravagantly on, her mind remained focused on something he had already said.
"Your acceptance of my proposal..." In her mind, Marcus' loud voice shaded into Tristan's quiet one. "I envy you...you are a free woman. You have choices.
"If you wish, Lady, your healing skills can be put to good use in London- or anywhere, I'm sure, but we are so happy..." Marcus was saying.
Choices. Yes, a choice only she could make. That it was her duty to make.
"Governor," she began, than repeated it, a little louder, when he did not immediately stop talking. "Governor!" There, she had his attention.
"Call me Marcus, of course," he said graciously.
Isolde shook her head slightly, refusing to use the informal address. With a deep breath she began. "Sir, I apologize deeply for all the trouble I have put you to. I too had great hopes for this alliance, but regretfully, circumstances have changed. We cannot marry.
There were gasps from those near enough to hear her words, and Isolde thought that Bragwaine gave a little laugh. "I wish you happiness, Governor," she gave him a little bow and turned to Agwisance, who stood nearby. "Uncle, I apologize to you also." She turned her back on the two men, who stood there demanding explanations of one another, and crossed to Arthur, almost running in her urgency.
Standing before the commander, new nervousness overcame her, but she pushed it down and relentlessly continued. She had to do this now or she might lose her chance. "Arthur Castus, once you begged a favor from me. Now I beg a favor from you." Impulsively she fell to her knees before him, eyes cast down to his heavy, black boots, to the accompaniment of more gasps and speculative murmuring.
"Let me go north with you to Hadrian's Wall. My healing skills can be of great use there, if you will allow me. I ask no special considerations, no tents, no wagons; I will ride as one of you. I will do whatever is required. Please, I beg it of you.
Arthur hesitated, and Isolde could hear Marcus coming closer behind her, his voice raised in anger.
"What is the meaning of this? Is there no one who can explain it? All this time and effort, and now she changes her mind? I demand-" He was right behind her now, but Isolde refused to look at him. She kept her eyes determinedly on Arthur's feet, praying that he would say yes and take her away from this blustering fool.
"With respect, Governor," put in Agwisance quietly, "It has never been our custom to force women to marry against their will, but if I could discuss this with my niece, perhaps we could reach an agreement-
"Agreement? We had an agreement! You say this is not your custom? Well, in Rome it is the custom to keep one's promises, and I will not stand for-
Arthur shifted his weight slightly, and Isolde looked up and followed his gaze to Lancelot standing behind him. She realized that he was silently asking his second's advice. Lancelot gave a slight nod, and Isolde silently blessed him, tears of happiness welling up in her eyes even before Arthur raised her to her feet. He spoke loudly enough that all the assembled could hear.
"It is dangerous at the Wall, Lady, but if you are resolved to do this, you may come with us." He looked pointedly at Marcus, though he still addressed Isolde. "You would be under our protection, of course." Behind him the knights understood his subtle signal and moved just a hair closer to him, hands almost imperceptibly closer to their weapons, but the implied threat was clear. Arthur turned back to Isolde. "If you need anything from the wagons, Lady, get it, but do not overburden yourself. Dagonet, help her.
Isolde went gladly with the big knight back to the wagons, understanding that he had been assigned not so much to help her pack, but as a bodyguard during this tense moment. Marcus was still sputtering his outrage; Agwisance, though bewildered himself, was trying to placate him; and Marcus' soldiers stood at his back, unsure what they would be expected to do, but distinctly nervous at the thought of crossing Arthur's renowned Sarmatian knights. When Isolde and Dagonet reached the corner of the wagon they met Bragwaine, who squeezed Isolde's hand and gave a delighted smile. Isolde hadn't seen her quite so happy since...well, since the night in the garrison.
From the wagon Isolde took only her harp and a few medicinal supplies that were not already in her saddlebags. As they were rigging a strap to hold the harp securely at the horse's side, Dagonet gave Isolde a big, warm smile.
"You sure stirred things up today, lass. I mean, Lady," he quickly corrected himself.
"Please, don't call me Lady. And yes, I suppose I did." She couldn't stop smiling, though, at the prospect of getting out on the road again with Arthur's company, and then of being useful and free in her new life, not reduced to a symbolic British wife inhabiting the governor's residence.
"I'm glad you're coming with us, La-" he broke off sheepishly, remembering that she had just asked him not to use the title.
"Thank you."
"I think he will be, too," added Dagonet thoughtfully. Isolde wasn't sure what he was talking about until she followed his gaze. On a high ridge to the north, she saw the tiny figure of a single rider, standing still, apparently looking down at them. As they watched, they saw a hawk come circling down and land on the figure's arm. Isolde smiled. Difficult though it might be, she had made the right choice.
Chapter One
Isolde was in the kitchen when she heard it. There was a commotion in the courtyard of her uncle's big house, the clatter of hooves, scrapes of metal, men's voices shouting. She quickly righted the large iron kettle she was scrubbing, dried her hands, and hurried out into the warm fall sun, in time to see three armored men easing a fourth, wounded man off his horse. She picked up her skirts and ran forward.
"Is the Lady Isolde about?" shouted one of the men, Roman by his armor, dark-haired, with a craggy, handsome face.
"I am she," Isolde answered, trying to get a look at the man's injury. It looked like a nasty, deep sword gash to his right arm. Blood soaked his shirt and dripped into the dust of the yard.
"I beg of you, Lady...I will pay whatever is required..." continued the man in Roman dress, presumably the leader.
"Of course I will treat him," she interrupted. "Bring him this way." She led the way inside, heading for the little room off the Hall where she usually saw patients. The four knights followed, the wounded one on his feet, but just barely. His face- what Isolde could see of it behind his messy hair- was frighteningly pale.
"He was wounded scarcely an hour ago, but he is already feverish," explained the leader as they went. "Can you help him?" There was a note of desperation in his voice.
Isolde didn't answer. Together she and the knights got the wounded man onto the bed in the sick room and she examined him cursorily. His captain had been right about the fever- his skin was burning hot to the touch. Worried, she started to remove his armor, but it was of a style unfamiliar to her, certainly not Roman, and she couldn't do it fast enough. One of the knights, the bigger of the two, with very long hair, shouldered past her and undid the buckles himself, then stepped back with an apologetic shrug. Isolde nodded to him gratefully, then slit off the remains of the wounded man's right sleeve and the inadequate, blood-caked bandage that was already in place. Bending down, she assessed the wound. Behind the metallic odor of blood, there was another smell, faint but sharp and sickly. Combined with the sudden fever, it was telling. She straightened up and addressed herself to the captain.
"You were fighting the Woads?
"Yes.
"He was struck by a poisoned blade. We- they- use them sometimes." She looked away, embarrassed by her slip, though her words were entirely true. The alliance between her uncle's tribe and Rome was relatively new and fragile; not so long ago they had been enemies, and Isolde had treated her share of injuries inflicted by Roman swords and spears. Her own father had been among them, though he was one of those for whom her healing skills could do nothing. But she had agreed to treat the knight, and she couldn't go back on her word now. She tied a cloth very firmly around his upper arm, placed more bandages over the wound itself, and beckoned to the knight who had helped her with the armor.
"Here, press on this, hard," she instructed him, and went to her supply cupboard. She had antidotes for a couple of the most commonly used poisons, and selecting the one that was needed, she poured a little into a cup and returned to the bed. Fortunately, the man was still conscious.
"This will work against the poison," she said, putting an arm underneath his shoulders to raise him up a bit. He gritted his teeth with pain at the movement.
"Poison?" he asked hoarsely.
"That was one blade you shouldn't have gotten in the way of, soldier. Drink," she urged, holding the cup to his lips. He did, coughing a little as the strong-tasting liquid touched the back of his throat.
"Good thing I killed him," he muttered bitterly, and turned his face away from her. Isolde could tell he was in extreme pain, but also that he was practiced at hiding it. She looked at the long-haired knight.
"Keep pressing on that. I'm going to make him a poultice.
Back at her work counter under the cupboard she took out a mortar and pestle and began mashing together the herbs that would speed healing and prevent infection, adding more of the antidote to draw the poison out of the wound. As she worked, the captain thanked her profusely.
"We are all grateful to you, Lady. There was no time to take him anywhere else, and we had heard of your healing..." His voice trailed off, then belatedly he realized he had not introduced himself. "I am Arthur Castus, commander of the Sarmatian Knights at the Northern Wall. This is Gawain," he indicated the man pressing on the bandage, "Gareth has gone to see to the horses," Isolde looked around, surprised. She hadn't even noticed that the younger man had left the room. "And that is Tristan," he pointed to the man on the bed. "Will he live, Lady? He is one of my most valuable men.
"He should, and he will have use of the arm, too," Isolde reassured him, going back to the bed. Seeing that the bleeding had finally slowed to a trickle, she nodded her thanks and dismissal to Gawain and applied the poultice to Tristan's wound. "He is very strong, I can tell.
She wrapped clean bandage around Tristan's arm over the poultice, then poured him a little wine and added a few drops of sleeping medicine. It was very quick-acting, and no sooner had he drained the cup than his eyes began to close. He fought it, though, his eyes on his commander, and only gave in to rest after Arthur nodded a silent permission. Isolde carefully covered him with a blanket, then began to collect the blood-stained bandages and her other articles.
"It would be best if he did not travel for a while," she informed Arthur. "I can care for him here, of course.
Arthur seemed hesitant. "There will be no problem with you treating him, then?" he asked.
Isolde took a deep breath. It was still hard not to think of the Romans as enemies, but she would do what she had to do. "I agreed to help him, Commander, and I will keep my word. My uncle Agwisance trusts my judgment and will not interfere. Now, your companion should rest. If you would come to the kitchen, sirs, I can offer you a bite to eat.
When the three knights were seated at the kitchen table enjoying bread and soup, and she had ordered a boy to collect Tristan's things and put up his horse in the stable, Isolde returned to her patient. He slept peacefully, head turned to one side, taking deep, relaxed breaths. Color was already beginning to return to his cheeks, his fever was somewhat less, and his pulse beat strongly, if a bit slowly, in his neck. Yes, Isolde thought, he would be all right.
She stood looking at him for rather longer than she needed to. Was this her former enemy, then? It was hard to determine his age, but Arthur's comments and Tristan's own attitude indicated that he was an experienced soldier. How many people had he killed, she wondered? Anyone she knew? Did it make him sad, all this fighting, as it made her, or afraid, or didn't he care? Did it even make him happy? What did he look like when he smiled? So many questions. Cautiously, though she knew he wouldn't wake, Isolde reached out and touched a braided lock of his hair with her fingertips.
Tristan was indeed tough and hardy, and he recovered even more quickly than Isolde would have thought. For the first few days he was feverish, but Isolde stayed close by his side, dosing him daily with the poison antidote and changing the poultice and bandages frequently. By the fifth morning his fever had broken, and after breakfast, Isolde helped him into the courtyard to get some fresh air. As they left the Hall, she was astonished to see a hawk glide gracefully down from a high tree and land carefully on Tristan's good arm. He stroked the seemingly wild creature affectionately as they stared into each other's eyes, as if communicating in some secret language no one else could hear. Then, the moment was over, too soon for Isolde's curiosity, and the bird returned to its vigilant perch above. Seeing Isolde's surprised expression, Tristan just shrugged.
"She helps me scout," he said offhandedly, as if it were no great matter.
Shaking her head in amazement, Isolde got Tristan settled on a bench and went to attend to some matters in the kitchen. When she came out again not long after, she was even more astonished, for Tristan was standing in a corner holding his great composite bow. As she watched, he pulled the string back to full draw with the wounded arm, grimacing at the pain it caused him, held it there a moment, let it go, and then stoically did it again. Horrified, Isolde ran to him, grabbed his right hand unceremoniously, and checked the wound. Fresh blood colored the bandage, and his arm muscles shook with the strain.
"I won't have you undoing all the good of your recovery," she scolded him, taking the bow and urging him toward a bench. "Bow practice can wait a few days. I'm putting this inside," and without waiting for his permission she turned toward the Hall with the bow in her hand.
"Let me unstring it first," Tristan called after her. She stopped, and at that moment the hall doors opened her cousin Donal emerged and began to cross the yard. Isolde called to the young man, and looking pointedly at Tristan, instructed Donal to unstring the bow. Donal did so, grunting slightly at the effort of bending the tough wood, and handed it back to Isolde. Tristan didn't look too pleased, but he said nothing, and Isolde continued inside. She felt angry that he was risking himself with too much exercise too soon, but at the same time she wondered why it upset her so much. His health was quite good, considering what he had been through, and surely the choice was his. Why was she so worried about him?
In the doorway of the sick room she started to set the bow down, but then stopped, struck with a different idea. Going to Tristan's packs in the corner she removed the sword in its sheath, and taking it along with the bow, went upstairs to her own bed chamber and hid them both in her clothing chest. There, now she would decide when he practiced next.
Or so Isolde thought. Only a few hours later, when she needed something from her chest, she discovered to her amazement that sword and bow were both gone. She had told no one where they were, and she had not thought that Tristan even knew which of one of the upstairs chambers was hers. Cursing under her breath, but also somehow delighted at his cleverness, Isolde went downstairs to the sick room, and sure enough, there was the bow, propped neatly against the wall next to the rest of Tristan's belongings. He himself was not there, nor was the sword in evidence.
Curious, Isolde went to look for him. She found him easily, sitting in the corner of the courtyard that was shaded by a big oak tree, carefully sharpening his sword. When she was several steps away, he looked up at her and drew the long, curved blade deliberately over the whetstone. It scraped ominously, and the look of warning in his eyes was obvious. Suddenly sobered, Isolde took the hint. She would never try to part him from his weapons again.
But, taciturn, moody, and possibly dangerous as Tristan was, Isolde found that she liked him. He spoke seldom, but what he did say betrayed keen intelligence and astute observation of the world around him. He smiled even less, but when he did it was contagious. He cared for few, but was intensely devoted to the hawk, which never strayed far from the house while Tristan stayed there. His horse also commanded a measure of his affection, and of course his armor and weapons, which he maintained lovingly, even obsessively. Obviously, battle was his life, and it was all too probable that someday, it would be his death as well.
The time inevitably came when Tristan was sufficiently recovered to return to the fort at Hadrian's Wall where his troop was based. On that day he armored himself, saddled his horse (he insisted on doing it himself), took the provisions Isolde gave him, thanked her, and rode away into a chill November wind. His sword was at his back, bow and arrows at his side, and the hawk rode impassively on the pommel of his saddle. Isolde watched him from the gate till he was out of sight, dry leaves swirling around her, whipped into a frenzy by the wind. She thought regretfully that, most likely, she would never see Tristan again.
Fall deepened and turned to winter, which slowly warmed into spring. It was in that season that messengers came from far-off London, sent by the Roman governor Marcus Severus. He had heard, they said, of Isolde's beauty and skill in healing, not to mention the powerful position of her uncle among the local Britons; and so he wished to request Isolde's hand in marriage.
It was clearly a political match, but it could be a very advantageous one. Isolde, eager to help bring peace to her homeland and after consulting with Agwisance and virtually everyone else whose opinion she respected, sent the messengers back bearing her compliments to Marcus Severus and her acceptance of his proposal.
So it was decided, and in the summer a military escort was sent to bring Isolde and her retainers safely to meet her future husband. Chapter Two
"Isolde, I made you something." Isolde looked up. It was Bragwaine, her maid, assistant in healing, and confidante. She was carrying one of the small clay bottles that they stored medicines in.
"What is it?" she answered, distracted. She was packing her saddlebags with the things she would need most immediately during her journey to London. Her escort was slated to arrive that very day.
Bragwaine sidled closer, lowering her voice conspiratorially. "For your wedding night," she giggled. "To make you passionate, see?" She held the bottle up so Isolde could get a better look at it.
"Bragwaine..." Isolde turned away, blushing. She didn't want to think about that, not now. But professional curiosity got the better of her. "What's in it?" she finally asked.
"Oh, this and that," Bragwaine said casually. "Wild oats, fennel, fava bean. Mandrake, of course. I boiled it down a lot, so it should be quite strong. You can add it to something, if you like. There's enough for both of you.
Isolde didn't look at her, newly embarrassed by the list of libido-enhancing ingredients, and the suggestion that she should share it with her fiance. It seemed indecent to contemplate doing such a thing when she had not even seen his face yet.
"I'm sorry," Bragwaine apologized softly, noticing Isolde's discomfort. "It's just that...I thought you might...You don't have to take it if you don't want it.
Isolde sighed. The maid's heart was in the right place, and it would be rude to just refuse her efforts. "I will take it. Thank you." Bragwaine nodded and retreated to the window as Isolde added the small bottle to her saddle bag. She doubted she would ever use it. She had mixed these "love potions" herself before, and they only worked when the drinkers were attracted to each other already, in which case they were unnecessary anyway. You couldn't make something from nothing, she reflected with another deep sigh.
"They're here!" exclaimed Bragwaine suddenly. Going to the window Isolde saw a short column of riders quickly approaching the house, throwing up dust in their wake. So the time had come. She was about to turn back to her saddlebag when she was startled by the cry of a hawk. As she watched, the bird came circling down and one of the riders held up his arm for it to land. Suppressing a grin, Isolde squinted in a vain attempt to make out more details, but she was already quite sure. Tristan. It just couldn't be anyone else.
Isolde was quite correct. There were ten mounted knights led by Arthur Castus himself, which drove home for her both the importance of this marriage and the possible dangers of the road they would travel. In the courtyard Isolde recognized Gawain and Gareth, both of whom who greeted her with smiles. Tristan stood nearby, cleaning his fingernails with his knife point and solemnly observing the bustle of saddling horses and loading last-minute items into the two wagons. When he saw her he gave a companionable nod that was was, as Isolde remembered, quite a friendly greeting by his standards.
"Is your arm well, Sir Tristan?" she asked him.
"Thanks to you," he acknowledged. He circled it to demonstrate the range of motion, which appeared to be complete.
"Good," she answered. There was a pause, as she considered what to say next. Finally, she settled for just blurting out what she meant. "I am glad to see you again.
He did not immediately reply. Isolde, feeling flustered at her apparent inability to communicate with him, was starting to turn away when a hint of a smile crossed his lips.
"Likewise," he said.
"Mount up!" Agwisance's voice called from across the yard. The journey was beginning.
It would take about a week to reach the place where Marcus Severus and his entourage would meet them, and then another five days or so after that to reach London. Isolde had never traveled so far before, and by the end of the first day her thighs and buttocks felt like they had been beaten to a pulp by the constant motion of the horse beneath her. Waking up the next morning was even worse- her legs were so stiff and painful she could barely stand up straight. She managed to force herself erect as she left the tent she shared with Bragwaine, praying no one would notice her condition, but as she approached the breakfast fire she stumbled on someone's saddle lying on the ground and fell to her knees. Trying to salvage what was left of her dignity, she got up again, hissing softly in pain, and practically collapsed onto a convenient tree stump.
"Saddle-sore?" the knight named Lancelot asked sympathetically, passing her a bowl of porridge with some scraps of meat.
"Yes," she grimaced, accepting his offering gratefully. "It's more awful than I could have imagined- how do you stand it, riding all the time?
"You get used to it," Tristan answered as he approached the fire. He served himself from the kettle, threw a piece of meat to his hawk, who had landed nearby, and sat down to eat.
"You could ride in the wagon," Bragwaine suggested. She was sitting near Lancelot, her glances toward him frankly admiring. The knight didn't look as if he objected at all.
"And admit defeat? No, thank you. I'll ride till my legs fall off." She scowled bad-temperedly and took a large bite of porridge.
"You'll do fine, then," Tristan commented, with what she could have sworn was a chuckle.
"What's on the road, Tristan?" asked Arthur from across the fire, and Tristan reported concisely around mouthfuls of his breakfast. Isolde was beginning to see why Arthur had referred to Tristan as very valuable, for he used him extensively as a scout. Tristan stood out as an excellent rider even among his fellow cavalrymen, and with his own keen observations and the hawk to assist him, there was little that escaped his notice. As the talk turned to other things, Isolde discreetly massaged her legs and resolved again that she would not show weakness by riding in the wagon. But that didn't keep her from gritting her teeth in pain as she mounted, and looking enviously at the knights swinging easily into their saddles, even Tristan, who had already ridden so far that morning.
For the second day, and then the third, they rode uneventfully. Isolde was pleased to find that her saddle-soreness really did improve; by the end of the third day it was down to a bearable dull ache. She was rather enjoying the ride by now: it was exciting to see new places, the weather had been good, and she was enjoying the company. The object of their protection she might be, but Isolde resisted thinking of herself as more important than, or even different from, the others. She had made a special effort to speak to each of the knights individually, at least for a brief moment. There was Lancelot, Arthur's second-in-command, devastatingly handsome and more than a little arrogant; Bors, loud, good-natured, often crude, always telling stories about his children, of which he had ten at the northern fort; Dagonet, the biggest and strongest of the group, not extremely intelligent but with a caring, gentle temperament; Gawain, practical to the bone, always willing to discuss strategy, tactics, and past battles- or the conquest of women, when he thought that none of that gender could hear him; and the sarcastic Galahad, cautious Peredur, blustering Erec, serene Gareth, and the capable squire Jols. They spent much of their time teasing and jibing each other relentlessly, which Isolde thought great fun to listen to. There were none of them that she really disliked.
Still, she felt a particular attachment to Tristan. From the very beginning she noticed that when he was not scouting he usually rode near her. At first it made her nervous; he was so hard to talk to, yet it seemed rude to just ignore him. Soon, though, she realized that he didn't really expect conversation, and after that, things became easier, and they did find things to talk about. He described the endless plains of Sarmatia far to the east ("A man could ride forever," he said), told her how he had trained the hawk, and listened intently to her talk about the properties of plants; but just as often they rode in silence. The others in the group noted their companionship, unusual for the quiet, inscrutable knight, and attributed it to Isolde's saving of Tristan's life. Bors commented that it was good to see that Tristan was, in fact, human enough to be grateful for something. Would he now be proving his humanity in other ways as well? Tristan retorted coolly that what he would really be grateful for was the chance to kill Bors someday, and the usually irrepressible Bors subsided. No one really thought Tristan would do anything to Bors, but it was clear that his unpredictable, dangerous side was still firmly in place.
On their fourth morning of travel Tristan returned from scouting with bad news. He had seen a party of about ten Saxons to the east, armed and trying to hide in the woods. Most disturbingly, they were far from any places Saxons had been known to land in the past. A tense discussion ensued, and it was decided that they must be an advance party for some larger force, and therefore they should be gotten rid of before they could bring back a report. Peredur and Galahad alone were left with the column while the other knights rode off to take on the Saxons.
That was a nerve-wracking time for everyone. They were terribly vulnerable with only two of the knights present, and Isolde kept jumping at the sound of every snapping twig, expecting to see a horde of savage Saxon warriors come hurtling down upon them. Fortunately, it never happened. Most of the other knights returned in the late afternoon. They had had the advantage, as the Saxons were on foot, and so they had killed them to a man. The knights' injuries were limited to assorted bruises and cuts; Isolde stitched one on Dagonet's scalp that bled profusely, though it was not serious.
Tristan, however, did not return with the others. He rode all day looking for the larger force that they all were sure had to be there somewhere, but when he returned to camp late, muddy, and exhausted, he had nothing to report. He unsaddled his horse, ate some food before the fire, then wrapped himself in his cloak and slept where he was, not even bothering to unpack his bedroll.
Chapter Three
The next day was intensely foggy, and they rode slowly, straining eyes and ears for the slightest hint of anything unusual, but again they found nothing. In the evening they reached a small garrison town, where they could spend the night. Relief was palpable in the air as they rode through the gate and into the protection of the thick, stone walls. There was not much in the way of accommodations available, but the commander showed them to a disused barrack building where Isolde and the other three women were given one room and Agwisance and his servants the other. Across a small yard from the barracks was a stable where they put up the horses, but the knights and the wagon drivers were to sleep outside, as always. Food was prepared, and now that they could relax inside walls guarded by someone else, the atmosphere quickly became festive. Agwisance produced wine from one of the wagons, the fire was built up high, and some of the townsfolk and soldiers joined them to exchange news, jokes, and songs.
As the sun went down behind the horizon, visible clearly for the first time that day, Isolde was sitting on an overturned bucket finishing her meal. Bragwaine, beside her, was done eating, and was carefully adjusting her hair, assessing her appearance in the tiny mirror that was one of Isolde's most prized possessions. Unlike Isolde, she had changed into skirts for the occasion, and she kept glancing across the fire at Lancelot, who was deep in conversation with Gareth and one of the soldiers from the garrison.
"You still fancy Lancelot, don't you?" Isolde asked, taking another bite.
Bragwaine twitched her skirts and grinned. "Yes. Or Gawain." she added thoughtfully, casting her eyes around the courtyard for the other object of her considerable affections.
"Well, I'm sure either of them would be willing to give you a tumble," Isolde commented, then added slyly, "Or even both of them." Bragwaine blushed at the thought and Isolde smiled to herself. It wasn't often that she was able to embarrass her brazen friend, but it was amusing when she managed it. "Go on, Bragwaine. Have fun.
The maid laughed girlishly, gave Isolde's hand a little squeeze, and crossed the courtyard to make her conquest. Or conquests, just as likely. Isolde shook her head ruefully and licked the last of the meat juices from her fingers.
She noticed that Bragwaine had left the mirror on her bucket seat. Moving slowly, thoughtfully, she picked it up and took inside to the women's room in the barracks.
It was nearly dark within, the only light coming through a small window high in the wall, and no one else was there. Isolde returned the mirror to her saddlebag, which sat on the ground next to the bunk she had claimed. As she carefully arranged the other items to best cushion the precious mirror, her hand touched a small clay bottle. Ah, yes, Bragwaine's "love potion". Isolde had almost forgotten it was there. She drew it out and looked at it for a long moment in the shaft of dim light.
The unassuming object was a sharp reminder for Isolde of what lay at the end of this journey. This wasn't just a cross-country jaunt with no purpose; she was going to marry Marcus. It surprised her to realize just how little she had thought of the trip in those terms. Perhaps she had never quite admitted to herself what exactly, specifically, it all meant. There was the politics, of course, the chance to help bring peace to Britain, but there was also the more personal aspect; and from thoughts of that Isolde had always unconsciously recoiled, pushing them down to a dark corner of her mind, burying them in lofty ideals of alliance, harmony, and an end to warfare.
Duty was duty, she reluctantly concluded, and if she wanted the expected alliance she had take the appealing with the not-so-appealing. But to try to make herself "passionate", as Bragwaine put it? That she would not do. Passion should spring from natural inclinations, not clever concoctions of herbs, and the thought of resorting to that artifice to please a man she had never even seen yet was repulsive to her. That is, if the potion had any effect at all. Thoroughly disgusted, she uncorked the bottle and prepared to pour it out on the ground.
But something stopped her. Maybe it was just that Bragwaine had worked so hard to make it, but it suddenly seemed a shame to waste the substance entirely. On a sudden whim, Isolde went outside to the table that had been pulled into the courtyard for the food and wine. Working quickly she found a skin with only a couple of cups worth of wine left in it, and under the shadow of the table, added the contents of the clay bottle. There, it was done. She would go to her wedding night with her true feelings intact, whatever they were, and hopefully, someone would get a pleasant surprise tonight.
"Isolde, there you are!" Agwisance exclaimed, coming towards her. "There are a couple of musicians here from the town. Why don't you get your harp? Everyone would love to hear you play. Go on, lass, get it from the wagon.
"I will, Uncle," Isolde agreed readily, grateful for the distraction, and hurried to the far side of the vehicle. Once in its shadow, she threw the small bottle on the ground and crushed it to pieces under the heel of her boot.
The three musicians, including Isolde, played till their fingers were sore. It was great fun to compare versions of songs, exchange new ones, and improvise their own. The audience was certainly appreciative, yelling out requests, clapping, singing along if they knew the words, and generally having a good time. Isolde grinned when Gawain picked Bragwaine up and whirled her around the open space in an impromptu dance that left them both laughing breathlessly. Then Bors came up to the musicians' table and tried to teach them a song from his homeland, which they eventually played to his satisfaction, though not without some difficulty, as Bors couldn't carry a tune at all to demonstrate. His efforts had the other knights teasing him and suggesting he take lessons from his wife, who apparently could sing very well. The mention of Bors' wife set off the inevitable series of lewd jokes about who had really fathered his children, with Lancelot being the favored candidate. The whole exchange was carried out in a very practiced manner, with lots of mock rancor and no real ill will at all.
Finally, the musicians took a break. Isolde rested at the table, harp beside her, content just to sit there watching and listening to the merrymaking around her. In a way, she wanted this happy evening never to end. But of course, it would have to, and the journey would continue, and eventually they would reach their destination. A shadow fell across her thoughts again.
"Thirsty?" She turned and saw Tristan behind her. Without waiting for an answer he poured a cup of wine from the skin he held, set it in front of her, and sat down on the other end of the bench where he poured for himself. Isolde sipped the wine gratefully. That was kind of him.
"I wondered if I'd ever get to hear you play," Tristan said, gesturing toward the harp.
"How did you know I do?" Isolde asked, puzzled. The harp had been packed securely in a wagon for the entire trip, and thinking back to last fall, she didn't recall ever playing while Tristan was around.
"Callouses on your fingers," he supplied matter-of-factly, taking a drink of wine.
Isolde looked at her fingers, shocked and impressed by his powers of observation. She didn't play as often as she used to, so the callouses were subtle, and when could Tristan have gotten a good look at her hands?
"You don't miss a thing, do you?" she asked, shaking her head.
"Not if I can help it.
They sat in silence for a moment. Then, impulsively, Isolde pushed the harp towards Tristan. "Here," she urged him. "Try it.
"Are you sure?
"Yes, yes. Here, put it between your legs, like so. And you pluck the strings like this." She laughed at his discomfiture as she reached around him to demonstrate. It was quite a change from his usual imperturbable self. Bravely, he persisted, allowing Isolde to teach him a couple of simple chords before he finally handed the harp back to her.
"I'll never be a harper," he said ruefully.
They were quiet again, sipping their wine. Isolde idly plucked a few notes from the harp strings, lost in her thoughts. She found herself admiring Tristan's elegant profile as he gazed into the fire, and then her eyes dropped to his shoulders, and down to his strong, capable hands. How would they feel touching her, she wondered? And his lips, what would it be like to kiss him? Very pleasant, she was sure. She would very much like to sit on his lap and...catching herself suddenly, she tried to suppress such thoughts, but found she couldn't. It was shocking how swiftly this new mood had come upon her. She felt flushed and hot, quickly drained the rest of her wine to distract herself, and came to an arresting realization.
The wine. That was it. With a muttered curse she grabbed for the wineskin Tristan had poured from, almost knocking the harp over in her haste. Her fears were confirmed. It was the same skin she had put the "love potion" in, now limp and empty.
Tristan looked at her questioningly. Intensely embarrassed but unable to stop wanting him no matter how hard she tried, Isolde struggled for an explanation that would not sound ridiculous.
"I think...well...there may have been something in that wine." She broke off, unable to continue, or even look him in the eye. He just nodded knowingly.
"I suspected so." Slowly and deliberately, perhaps giving her a chance to avoid him if she chose, he slid a little closer and rested his hand on her leg under the table. Its warmth soaked into her, and she tensed, trying to restrain herself from moving closer and throwing her arms around him.
"Are you afraid of me?" Tristan asked.
"Yes," Isolde blurted, then quickly corrected herself. "Well, no, not exactly, it's just that..." By Heaven, she couldn't possibly explain. She was afraid, but she also wanted him more than anything. And what if someone saw them? Where could they- she looked across the courtyard.
"There is no one in the stable right now," she found herself whispering.
"True." Tristan agreed. His hand moved on her leg, a firm, confident caress. "Shall we see if the horses' hay is suitable?
They rose from the table together.
Chapter Four
In the predawn darkness Lancelot pushed open the creaking stable door. As the first one up this morning, he might as well check on the horses. His lantern cast a small pool of yellow light as he moved down the line of stalls, greeting each horse in turn. At the last stall, though, which he had thought to be empty, he stopped in amazement. The lantern swung perilously from his fingers for a moment until he got a better grip on it. He opened his mouth to say something, closed it again, then finally found suitable words.
"Dawn's soon," he warned tersely. As he turned and walked away, Tristan smiled to himself and pulled Isolde a little closer. She sighed and smiled in her sleep.
To his credit, Lancelot said nothing to anyone about his early morning discovery. The women who shared Isolde's room must have guessed- at least the general nature of the incident, if not the details- but they gave no sign of it, apart from some significant looks. Undoubtedly they wondered how this would affect the arrangement which was the purpose of their journey, but as it turned out, it did not. Isolde was resolved to continue. Pleasant the night in the stable had certainly been, but it hadn't been intended to happen. And who knew what Tristan felt today? He was even more quiet than usual, almost sullen, though he lavished attention on his hawk at breakfast before riding ahead of the party to scout the way. Isolde saw little of him all day, and she rode stony-faced, playing through in her mind all the scenes of the previous night and all the ways it could have gone differently. She could have poured the potion on the ground. She could have politely returned it to Bragwaine, who would certainly have found a use for it. She could have been more careful about what she drank. She could have not gone into the stable with Tristan. She could have declared to everyone that morning that she had changed her mind and could not continue the journey. For that matter, she could declare the same thing even now. But she did not. She continued, despite her growing, nagging feeling of wrongness about the whole thing.
In the evening, after hearing Tristan's report, Arthur announced that they would meet Marcus Severus and his escort the next day, probably relatively early. Agwisance was delighted that they had made such good time, but Isolde could not share his enthusiasm. Her doubt had only increased since morning, and now it tormented her, almost to the point of making her physically sick. At night she tossed restlessly for what seemed like forever, unable to sleep. Finally, she could stand the stifling tent no longer, and stepping carefully over the sleeping Bragwaine, she went out into the night air. Some small talk with whoever was on watch might relax her.
She had gone several steps toward the fire before she realized that it was Tristan there, silhouetted beyond the flames. She considered just going back to the tent, but he had already seen her, and she really didn't want to be rude, though she was afraid this would be terribly awkward. She approached slowly, hesitantly.
"I couldn't sleep," she said softly when she reached him.
"Neither could I," he answered.
"But you're on watch, aren't you?
He nodded. "Sleeplessness is sometimes an advantage," he smiled, making Isolde feel just a little better. They stood together, looking out into the night. Finally, Isolde broke the silence.
"I'm sorry, Tristan," she confessed.
"For what?
She took a deep breath and steeled herself to explain as best she could. "For...for last night. It was my fault, there was...well, there were some herbs in the wine, a...a sort of potion, I guess you could call it. I was very careless. It...it wasn't supposed to be for us. I really don't even know what I meant to do. Can you ever accept my apology?
He was quiet for a long moment. Eventually, when he did speak, he didn't answer Isolde's question.
"You regret it?" he asked.
She had to pause to think about that. "No," she began slowly. "I don't. Not at all. But...there is the alliance, and I have my duty, you understand?
He laid his hands on her shoulders and turned her to face him. His dark eyes searched her face. "I envy you," he said.
"Why?" she asked, puzzled by his sudden changes of subject.
"I must do whatever Rome orders. You are a free woman. You have choices.
"Yes," she sighed. "And I have made my choice. But I have no regrets. It was wonderful," she confessed, a little shyly. He drew her into his arms and hugged her, her cheek pressed to the hard metal of his armor, his hands stroking her back comfortingly. When he spoke again, it was in a whisper so soft it was barely audible.
"I needed no potion, Isolde. Not for you.
In the morning Isolde stepped out of her tent to find a light, cold drizzle falling. Out of habit she looked for Tristan, but he did not appear at the fire to eat, and as they began to strike the camp there was still no sign of him. It surprised her, for she had thought they would not travel as far that day. Finally, she worked up the courage to ask Lancelot about it.
"Will Tristan be scouting long, do you think?
Lancelot shrugged. "Who knows? He went out very early," the knight made a vague gesture to the north and continued to tack his horse.
Confused, Isolde looked in the direction he had indicated. "North? But...we are going south, aren't we?
He finished tightening the girth and turned to her, his expression serious. "We meet Marcus Severus before midday, probably, and since he has his own escort, we will return to the north.
"Then...he is not coming back here?" Lancelot shook his head and Isolde felt a cold knot settling in her stomach as she realized what that meant. It had to happen eventually, but today? She wasn't nearly prepared for this yet.
Lancelot studied her closely, gauging her reaction to the news. "Lady," he asked curiously, "do you marry of your free will?
"I do," she answered firmly, wondering at his sudden formality. "It is necessary.
"Necessary for what?
"For peace, of course. To cement the alliance between my people and Rome.
Lancelot sighed deeply and propped his hand on his forehead for a moment. When he raised it again, he spoke formally and carefully, and Isolde sensed she was about to hear some bad news. The coldness in her guts began to spread.
"I do not know how much you know of these matters, Lady, so forgive me if I state the obvious, but- Rome is leaving this island. The Saxons press us more every year, and Italy itself may have need of reinforcements. We will not stay much longer- two years perhaps, three at the most. And then...
"Then what?" Isolde could barely speak. Her mouth was dry and wooden, and she felt sick.
"Then Marcus Severus will return to Rome, or perhaps to some other part of the Empire. He will undoubtedly take his household with him." Lancelot paused significantly before driving his point home. "Including his wife.
"Thank you, Lancelot. I will remember your words," she managed to say, and hurried away towards the wagon before anyone could see the tears in her eyes.
Chapter Five
Many were privately surprised when Isolde elected to ride in the wagon that morning, but only Bragwaine actually asked her about it. Isolde told her maid shortly that she wished to think and pray alone before meeting Marcus, and Bragwaine accepted the lame excuse even though she of all people should know that Isolde was not in the habit of praying too often. From inside the wagon Isolde could hear Bragwaine conversing in low tones with Agwisance, but neither of them questioned her further, for which she was grateful. Her silent tears felt shameful to her, but she couldn't stop them. In the space of one short conversation her whole world seemed to have come crashing down at once- her treasured dreams of peace shattered, Tristan gone without even a goodbye, and her planned marriage looking more bleak than ever.
At first she tried to convince herself that Lancelot couldn't possibly know as much as he said he did about Rome's official strategy. For all his cocky assurance, he was only a single knight, a conscript at that, like all of Arthur's men. But the more she thought about it, the more she decided that his words had the ring of truth. He had served at the northern frontier for years, so his information about the Saxons was certainly reliable, and as Arthur's highly trusted second in command, he probably knew everything his superior did about military matters in the larger world.
And that didn't even begin to address the issue of Tristan. Already she missed him more than she had thought possible. Without knowing it she had come to expect and depend on his quiet presence, and only now that he was gone did she realize how empty things seemed without him.
After a while she became aware that the column was stopping, and over the general noises of horses and creaky wheels she heard first Agwisance, and then Arthur, exchange pleasantries with a great, booming voice she did not recognize. A second later, Bragwaine appeared at the back of the wagon.
"Isolde, Marcus is here! Already! Come on!
Slowly, resignedly, Isolde moved out from among the bundles where she had been sitting and scooted closer to Bragwaine. The maid's tone instantly altered when she saw Isolde's face clearly.
"Have you been crying?" she asked, laying a sympathetic hand on Isolde's cheek.
Wordlessly Isolde nodded, and then, in a burst of love and affection for her friend, took her into her arms for a fierce hug. "You have always been an excellent friend to me, Bragwaine. Thank you," she sniffed. They held each other for a moment, and then Isolde broke the embrace, pulled herself to her full height, and walked around the wagon to meet her future husband.
The drizzle had stopped, and they were in full sun at the edge of a wood. Her familiar escort stood facing a new one consisting of soldiers in the typical Roman uniforms. Agwisance and Arthur stood talking to a prosperous-looking man in a toga, who came smiling to meet her when she emerged.
So this is Marcus Severus, she thought. He was a square-built man, not too tall, with an earnest, friendly expression, a large nose, and the booming voice she had noticed earlier. But given Lancelot's words of that morning, Isolde could not look at him without thinking that soon he would be gone from Britain, and all his ilk with him. And where would that leave her? Oblivious to her conflicted thoughts, Marcus bowed to her and kissed her hand.
"Lady Isolde, I cannot tell you how delighted I am to meet you at last. I must say you are every bit as beautiful as you were rumored to be- more even! And so talented too, I'm told. Your acceptance of my proposal has given us all such great hope for the future! Come, look here, Lady, I have arranged for..." Numbly Isolde followed as Marcus began to point out the features of his own escort and traveling accommodations, but as he rattled extravagantly on, her mind remained focused on something he had already said.
"Your acceptance of my proposal..." In her mind, Marcus' loud voice shaded into Tristan's quiet one. "I envy you...you are a free woman. You have choices.
"If you wish, Lady, your healing skills can be put to good use in London- or anywhere, I'm sure, but we are so happy..." Marcus was saying.
Choices. Yes, a choice only she could make. That it was her duty to make.
"Governor," she began, than repeated it, a little louder, when he did not immediately stop talking. "Governor!" There, she had his attention.
"Call me Marcus, of course," he said graciously.
Isolde shook her head slightly, refusing to use the informal address. With a deep breath she began. "Sir, I apologize deeply for all the trouble I have put you to. I too had great hopes for this alliance, but regretfully, circumstances have changed. We cannot marry.
There were gasps from those near enough to hear her words, and Isolde thought that Bragwaine gave a little laugh. "I wish you happiness, Governor," she gave him a little bow and turned to Agwisance, who stood nearby. "Uncle, I apologize to you also." She turned her back on the two men, who stood there demanding explanations of one another, and crossed to Arthur, almost running in her urgency.
Standing before the commander, new nervousness overcame her, but she pushed it down and relentlessly continued. She had to do this now or she might lose her chance. "Arthur Castus, once you begged a favor from me. Now I beg a favor from you." Impulsively she fell to her knees before him, eyes cast down to his heavy, black boots, to the accompaniment of more gasps and speculative murmuring.
"Let me go north with you to Hadrian's Wall. My healing skills can be of great use there, if you will allow me. I ask no special considerations, no tents, no wagons; I will ride as one of you. I will do whatever is required. Please, I beg it of you.
Arthur hesitated, and Isolde could hear Marcus coming closer behind her, his voice raised in anger.
"What is the meaning of this? Is there no one who can explain it? All this time and effort, and now she changes her mind? I demand-" He was right behind her now, but Isolde refused to look at him. She kept her eyes determinedly on Arthur's feet, praying that he would say yes and take her away from this blustering fool.
"With respect, Governor," put in Agwisance quietly, "It has never been our custom to force women to marry against their will, but if I could discuss this with my niece, perhaps we could reach an agreement-
"Agreement? We had an agreement! You say this is not your custom? Well, in Rome it is the custom to keep one's promises, and I will not stand for-
Arthur shifted his weight slightly, and Isolde looked up and followed his gaze to Lancelot standing behind him. She realized that he was silently asking his second's advice. Lancelot gave a slight nod, and Isolde silently blessed him, tears of happiness welling up in her eyes even before Arthur raised her to her feet. He spoke loudly enough that all the assembled could hear.
"It is dangerous at the Wall, Lady, but if you are resolved to do this, you may come with us." He looked pointedly at Marcus, though he still addressed Isolde. "You would be under our protection, of course." Behind him the knights understood his subtle signal and moved just a hair closer to him, hands almost imperceptibly closer to their weapons, but the implied threat was clear. Arthur turned back to Isolde. "If you need anything from the wagons, Lady, get it, but do not overburden yourself. Dagonet, help her.
Isolde went gladly with the big knight back to the wagons, understanding that he had been assigned not so much to help her pack, but as a bodyguard during this tense moment. Marcus was still sputtering his outrage; Agwisance, though bewildered himself, was trying to placate him; and Marcus' soldiers stood at his back, unsure what they would be expected to do, but distinctly nervous at the thought of crossing Arthur's renowned Sarmatian knights. When Isolde and Dagonet reached the corner of the wagon they met Bragwaine, who squeezed Isolde's hand and gave a delighted smile. Isolde hadn't seen her quite so happy since...well, since the night in the garrison.
From the wagon Isolde took only her harp and a few medicinal supplies that were not already in her saddlebags. As they were rigging a strap to hold the harp securely at the horse's side, Dagonet gave Isolde a big, warm smile.
"You sure stirred things up today, lass. I mean, Lady," he quickly corrected himself.
"Please, don't call me Lady. And yes, I suppose I did." She couldn't stop smiling, though, at the prospect of getting out on the road again with Arthur's company, and then of being useful and free in her new life, not reduced to a symbolic British wife inhabiting the governor's residence.
"I'm glad you're coming with us, La-" he broke off sheepishly, remembering that she had just asked him not to use the title.
"Thank you."
"I think he will be, too," added Dagonet thoughtfully. Isolde wasn't sure what he was talking about until she followed his gaze. On a high ridge to the north, she saw the tiny figure of a single rider, standing still, apparently looking down at them. As they watched, they saw a hawk come circling down and land on the figure's arm. Isolde smiled. Difficult though it might be, she had made the right choice.