Over the course of the following days, Isolde went out riding many other times, always followed by one of Arthur's knights and one of Mark's bodyguards. The former usually spoke with her while the latter was abandoned to sulk in utter stillness. None of Tristan's fellow companions tried to fix that fact. Isolde found a trustworthy friend in each of the knights, though she had her own preferences among the group.
Percival taught her how to braid her hair in the Sarmatian style, with much thinner plaits weaving around each other, adding strips of loose cloth along the braid. According to his tales, his older sister had forced him to learn, but Isolde had the secret suspicion that the absent-minded knight liked doing that sort of thing.
Galahad explained what he remembered about home, describing it with such passion she felt compelled to visit it as soon as she possibly could. Somehow, the young man managed to depict a land so wild and different to everything she'd ever known that she began to picture it without any further guidance.
Gawain educated her about weapons, how to clean them, how to sharpen their blades without cutting off too much metal. The golden knight even told her tricks about swordsmanship.
Bors introduced her to his children. Isolde found it funny and yet a little offensive towards the poor bastards that their father had properly named two or three, preferring to stick with names when it came to the rest. She agreed to help him find decent names for each of the younglings, who in turn took to following around wherever she went. Vanora appreciated the help with her offspring, and the queen was always happy to help.
With Dagonet she spoke of herb lore and medicinal plants, exchanging knowledge about techniques and methods to cure different diseases. Isolde soon found that Dagonet was one of her favourite, because his silence was just as filling and rewarding as his chat. There was never an ounce of discomfort where Dagonet was concerned.
Lancelot, who was always followed around by eager Lamorak, narrated stories about their confrontations against Woads and other rivals. He often included tales of his conquests. It appeared that his sexual prowess was far more impressive than his memory, for he quickly started to mix up names and descriptions, making Isolde laugh at his distress.
All of the knights discovered in turn that Isolde was an enthusiastic student who wanted to learn everything she possibly could. It seemed her mind never stopped working. All the time spent with them also made her more open than she already was. Mark began to despise the Sarmatians. He even tried to stop his wife from seeking her company, but the only thing he got as a result of that was a locked door and no possibility of visiting Isolde in the cold nights. To humiliate and spite her, he became much less discrete with his affairs, which only increased her resolve. The Irish princess had no doubt she would pay for her actions when they got back to Cornwall, but it was all worth it. She didn't hate Mark. There was no room for such a feeling in a marriage like theirs, and it was not like he was an evil man. She pitied him, which was a sentiment much more painful to the King.
As for Tristan, Isolde hadn't seen him since that confrontation between her husband and herself back at the square. He had apparently been sent by Arthur to scout around the fort. Although he ever strayed too far from the Wall, it always took about three days to cover what was considered the closest area to the village. Isolde missed him. The first night, she wrote on a piece of parchment and called Baile to her.
"Take this to Tristan" she whispered longingly before letting the hawk leave.
Tristan read the note and ripped it, tearing the words into pieces. The white falcon gazed at him with intelligent eyes and he lifted his finger. Baile pinched it softly, indicating he knew what Tristan meant to his master. Then he left with a powerful thrust of wings. The scout watched the bird go, his face blank. He didn't plan on responding. He'd never trusted paper; he didn't confide what he thought to something which could easily be discovered. And how could he name the sentiment he held for a woman he could never have? She was out of limits. Love? He snickered at the term. Love was an invention of men to make women swoon at petty little declarations. Love, if there was ever such a feeling, was for the weak and soft. He was neither of those things. He was a warrior, a tough knight whose future was still uncertain. Tristan's was a life of solitude and blood, both his and his enemies'. He wanted no one to be constantly fawning about whether or not he would come back alive. He didn't want to owe anything to anyone.
So the note, two simple words, almost messed his resolve not to care. It was annoying because it meant his life had a purpose other than expiring those fifteen years the Romans forced him and his brothers to serve. It was annoying because it meant being less bold and daring than what his job required, only to come back safely to him. Those two words, "be careful", could change everything, and it took all Tristan had not to rush back to the fort. And he hated her for it, if only for a moment. One couldn't be deadly and careful at the same time.
"You'll be the death of me, woman" he grumbled.
His hawk flapped her wings, begging to leave. Tristan obliged. It was time to go home.