Chapter 7 – The Unspoken and the Unnatural
"Oh please, Sir…can you not let me in?..." she paused, catching her breath which was ragged and wheezy from the frantic sprint across the meadow. "Tis only a few moments past curfew. Have pity, tis a cold night," pleaded Aithne, through a small viewing hole in the sally-port door. She'd heard the curfew bell tolling just as she passed clear of the trees and had ran like a hunted elk to reach the gatehouse in time.
"I'm sorry miss, orders is orders. You know the rules. Gates'll be open again at dawn," answered the two eyes of the sentry on the other side. Aithne's exhausted heart plunged to her feet. Curse that bloody knight, this was all his doing.
"Please…" she entreated once more, but to no avail as the iron slot slid shut, cutting off her words. Aithne let out an exasperated roar and dropped her head in her hands, catching angry tears as they flowed once again. Damn, damn, damn! I hate that man, I swear, I truly hate him!
"Let her in Cicero" a sudden voice commanded from behind, startling both Aithne and the sentry behind the door and the iron slot slid back open again.
Aithne wiped away her tears with a surreptitious sweep of her knuckles, but she didn't turn around. She recognised the voice of course and as relieved at that moment as she was to hear it, she'd walk burning embers before she'd speak to him.
"Yes sir!" the guard replied hastily, obeying the order immediately and without question. There was no doubt he too recognised the voice.
A scrape of iron across iron, a thud, a clang and the small inner door slowly opened, its hinges squealing in protest. Aithne could feel Tristan at her shoulder but determined not to be intimidated she pulled herself up tall and poked out her chin haughtily. Stepping through the doorway as soon as space enough allowed, she thanked the guard who smirked and threw her a knowing wink in return. Aithne glared at him, tempted to slap him and the infuriating sod behind her, who was no doubt smirking as well and doing nothing to contradict the idea that they were returning from a tryst in the heather. To her dismay, a guilty blush swept across her cheeks. The guard couldn't possibly see it through the twilight hue but it was enough for Aithne just knowing it was there and knowing that the reason for it could quite easily have been so. Now she wanted to thump them both more than ever.
Furious, she stomped off. Tristan stayed right on her shoulder leading his stallion by the rein beside him, and matching her step by step. When they were a safe distance from wagging ears, he called out her name.
Aithne's response was to hasten her steps even more and then break into a trot. Tristan stopped and watched as she slipped away across the courtyard, deciding it was perhaps best to let her go. He had no idea what he should say to her anyhow, hurt and angry as she was and who could blame the woman?
Leave well alone, he told himself. Leave well alone and let her be now. There were comely wenches enough around here….and with better legs…that know their place, ask nothing of him and don't hog his bed in the mornings. If there's one thing he hated, it was sharing his bed! She'd hog his bed - her type always do. There'd be no kicking her out once he'd taken his fill. She'd want to stay all night, snaking her limbs all over his like some annoying clinging vine and taking all the blankets. Then, the gods forbid, she'd be pestering to share his meals, then his whole day, then his whole life!
Bloody women! He grumbled to himself as he turned back and made his way towards the stable. He'd settle the old nag down for the evening and then wander over for a jar or two at the tavern. He needed a drink, for oddly it seemed his spirits had fallen and now lay heavy and low.
...
Guyon sat alone at a tavern bench. The evening was still early and only a few were as yet scattered about the watering hole having a sup and a morsel to eat. Aithne's father, who had been sharing the table, had just wandered off, first to the privy and then on to refill the pitcher they were sharing. Guyon had joined the baker in hopes to discuss his daughter. He'd felt a sudden urgency to move matters on in regards to Aithne. The way that knight had looked at her today had been haunting him all evening. Worse still, the way she had looked back at him lit warning beacons amass. No one ever showed Aithne interest, no one. Everyone knew she was meant for him and there were none amongst the villagers would dare cross him. Even most soldiers of the garrison would think twice before tussling with Guyon. He stood at least half a hand above most men and was as broad as an ox. But this knight, this bastard son of a Sarmatian…he was another matter entirely.
Leaning forward on elbows, head lowered and face shrouded by long raven hair, he stared at the woman who appeared through the sally-port door on the other side of the courtyard and the mug of ale in his hand began to tremble slightly in his white knuckled grip. With the appearance of the man and horse close behind her, he winced as the muscles along his jaw twitched and strained to hold the fury that curdled in the deepest caverns of his stomach.
…
Her father had still not returned home she discovered, as she slammed the door behind her. Although she was relieved to have time alone to calm her ruffled feathers, she couldn't help being vexed some more that he'd not come home early as he said he would. Oh, whom was she trying to fool? She knew he'd be at the ale for the night. Aithne sighed, exasperated and sat down at the table, shooing a hen that had settled down quite nicely for the evening atop of it with one sweep of her hand. She leaned forward on her elbows and dropped her chin upon cupped hands. I'll not think of him…don't you dare think of him…horrid man…horrid nasty man, with his horrid nasty horse and his horrid rabbit supper… Aithne gave out an angry yell, thumped her fists on the table, stood up, grabbed a broom and then promptly began sweeping the floor with furious vigour - Anything to keep her mind from knights, rabbits and honey-brown eyes.
Home thoroughly swept and tidied and with no sign of her father returning, Aithne set about readying the ovens for the morning. The fires required lighting hours before to heat the stone and then hot ashes swept out ready for the loaves to be baked. Aithne always lit the fires of a night before going up the ladder to her cot in the eaves.
She cursed at the sight of the empty wood basket and then going outside, she cursed some more at the sight of the uncut logs beneath the wood shelter next to the bakery. This was too much. Never had she been a one to disturb her father at his drinking but tonight he'd feel the sharp edge of her tongue. She'd teach him to slope off to the tavern and leave her with no wood cut for the ovens.
The tavern area was a far more bustling place now, when Aithne came trudging towards her father and Guyon. The atmosphere was a generally genial one. Laughter, singing, the odd shout of protest at the poor roll of a dice. A typical evening, for a hospitable drinking den.
"Da...!Da!" Aithne called above the cheery din.
Her father and Guyon simultaneously turned to look over their ale mugs, both looking as surprised as each other at the sight of Aithne marching up to their tavern table.
"You told me, you would nay be late, Da – and there's no wood for the ovens!" she scolded, ignoring Guyon and glaring at her father.
"Ah sweeting!" soothed her father standing up to meet her and swaying a little "I was sure there were plenty…I'm sorry, my bonny hen" he said, holding his arms out to greet his daughter with a hug. She knew he was merrily in his cups but he looked at her with such heartfelt regret that as always, her annoyance melted away.
"Oh, Da!" she chided, unable to resist accepting his embrace "Well.. there's none…so I'm just telling ya!" Aithne muttered, her temper subdued now and a little tinged with guilt.
At that, Guyon stood up, smiling down at her from his towering height. Not one twitch or scowl could be detected on his handsome face. No one would ever guess the violence that had been swimming about his thoughts for the last hour, so composed was he.
"I'll be glad to cut wood for you, Aithne if you'd let me?" He offered graciously, his voice deep and smooth as melting ice.
Aithne turned to look up at Guyon, but caught the eyes of another in the crowd, stood behind him across the way, as she did so. To her dismay, her heart leapt at the sight of him…curse that man again...curse her damned indicative heart… Tristan stared at her briefly, not a flicker of emotion or recognition even and then turned his back without as much as a nod. He took a seat alongside his friend Dagonet and was instantly joined by pretty, dark haired woman who slid into his lap and curled her arms around his neck.
"Aithne?" Guyon's voice asked again
Aithne dragged her eyes back to Guyon.
"No, no...it's fine Guyon…" Her words faltered as she swallowed a painful bolt of grief. "I can manage….stay with Da, make sure he gets home safe…" she forced a smile on her face, bid farewell to both and tried to walk away but Guyon caught her arm.
"For goodness sake!" she hissed angrily, hurting and desperate to be gone "I told you I can manage"
The look on Guyon's face said it all and Aithne quickly apologised, feigning excuses and soothing him with reassurances. To her relief, he eventually agreed to let her go, alone - albeit tainted with the tone of tightly leashed anger through clenched teeth.
…
Aithne swung the axe high, staggering a little as she brought the weight down upon the log. It landed with a dull thud, embedded deep down inside the hardened tree flesh. She strained at the handle, trying to prise the axe-head out but it was stuck fast once again. She cursed and struggled some more but still it wouldn't come free. I will not think of him again, I will not!
"Damn, blast and bugger it!" she cried in anguish, tears threatening. Her arms and shoulders ached like the devil, her hands were burnt and blistered and still she could not banish the sight of that arrogant pig and his hussy.
Another curse and she tried again, bending over the axe, readying her grip and pulling with all her might, stopped suddenly by the touch of a slender hand covering hers.
Tristan felt the pleasant warmth of her hand creep through his fingers and the gentle kiss of her loose braided hair, which fell forward over her shoulder. For just a moment, the feathery tips fluttered lightly over his hand, making his skin tingle.
Aithne gasped with surprised, shoving away his hand and stepping back as she stood up. She'd been oblivious of his approach as her stunned expression confirmed.
"What do you want?" she demanded rudely, scowling at him as if he were the devil himself and rubbing frantically at the hand he had touched, as if scorched by flames.
"I thought to help you with the axe, twas all. You seemed to be struggling" Actually, he had no idea what he was doing here but what sort of an answer would that have been?
"Nay...That's not my meaning!" she snapped, frustrated and angry. All the emotions of the most unusual and confusing day of her simple life pent up and bursting to explode "Why do you pester me so?"
"Pester you?" Tristan frowned, he expected her to be vexed with him, but he'd not prepared himself for a conversation like this.
"Aye, pester me...tis true and you know it is so!" She barked, thrusting her hands on hips and glaring across at him "Always makin' me talk to you, when I don't wish it…then ignoring me when you wish it...and…and…chasing me round the countryside like I was a prize boar…then the next, casting me off like some chewed up ol' chicken bone. Not to mention just now at the tavern - you turned your back on me and then…then that…" Aithne just managed to stop short of mentioning the woman. The humiliation was enough as it was without him thinking she had any care about that.
Tristan let out a short incredulous laugh "It was you who went scurrying off when we got through the gates. I called to you and you ignored me"
"I was angry; you left me in the woods alone, when night was comin' in!" she spat back. "What sort of a man does that!"
"I didn't leave you, You ran off!"
"You ordered me to 'get off home' like I was some hearth hound you owned, while you stropped off after your horse. And lord knows what I did to deserve that! You had every intention of abandoning me"
"I didn't abandon you, woman. Twas me that saw you got safely home" he growled defensively. Oh, this wasn't going well. This wasn't going well at all.
"Oh, did you really! Followed me all the way I suppose…"
"Aye, I did that…you had no need to worry, Aithne, no harm would have come to you"
"Tis you that worries me, Sir! You confuse me…your mood swings like a bough in a gale…I don't understand you…"
He wanted to say that he did not understand himself either. He didn't understand why he'd pushed her away in the woods, when every hair and fibre of his being ached to hold her close. Just as he did not understand why thoughts of her had lingered with him since the moment she had spilled wine on his morning fast. Or why he longed to hear her voice that so barely spoke, or look upon her face so often hidden when there were pretty faces aplenty waiting for him, should he want them.
He didn't understand why just an hour ago, he had vowed to leave her be and he had meant it. Then she shows up at the tavern all flustered and snippy and the sight of her there lifted his dark spirits like a veil in the wind. She seemed to be threatening the whole balance of his uncomplicated life and he bloody well didn't understand that either!
"…You play games with me, sir...I'll not be made sport of, not by you or anyone…" Aithne warned and she meant it.
"Aithne…I'm not making…"
" … I beseech you, sir" she interrupted, refusing to listen to his excuses, determined only to get her answer "What it is you want of me?"
Tristan stared at her with a look of ambiguous honesty.
"I really don't know, Aithne," he murmured huskily, whilst wanting so much to pull her into his arms.
"Well I know what I want…" she dragged the words from the pit of her stomach; they came out fighting not truly wanting to be spoken. "I want you to leave me alone. You trouble me, sir and I don't like it. If there is any morsel of civility in you, please do as I bid"
Tristan looked thrown for a fleeting moment, but said nothing. He seemed to struggle as if searching for a reply and then gave up. Heaving a long, deep breath, he hesitated, then simply inclined his head respectfully and walked away.
…..
Some hours later, along the darker district of the city fort, where the wenches lived and plied their trade, stood one small hut in particular. Outside could be heard the usual muffled sounds of fervent male lust. Inside, the quiet whimpers of female pain.
The girl bit down hard on her knuckle to stifle her cries. Best not cry out, it only makes them worse. It'll all be over soon, think of the coin, think of your baby, think of anything…. But the girl did cry out. Body bent over and head crushed against the table top by an unimaginably strong hand, fingers digging into her skull deeper and deeper with every excruciating thrust inside of her. Aberrant, agonising, she knew some men preferred this, unnatural as it was and it wasn't her first time, but never had she felt such pain as this – he would kill her, she swore – imagining insides torn to shreds, bleeding…oh god there would be so much bleeding. She cried into her fist again as the onslaught continued. He began to shout out, his thrust becoming more murderous with every yell. The faster he thrust, the louder he cried out a barrage of lascivious and brutal filth. All of it interwoven with one name over and over. 'Aithne'
With one final plunge, he filled her to the hilt, yelling the name as his seed spurted violently forth. Panting, gasping as his release eased away, he withdrew with an exhausted whimper. He then wiped clean his waning member on the girls skirts, pulling them over her exposed buttocks when he was done, disgusted by the sight of her. He pulled up his breeches and threw a coin on the table. The girl slowly, painfully eased her head from the table, and then fumbled for the coin that had rolled off the table and landed on the floor by her feet.
She was plump little thing, with long, wild chestnut curls and a pretty face marred only by a scar on her lip and a broken front tooth. A typical souvenir from an over-zealous customer in the past. One of many and all too familiar, more was the pity for girls like she. It was easy to understand Guyon's choice in the girl – the resemblance, though not remarkable, was satisfactory enough for an imaginative mind.
"Is that it? One stinking coin…after that?" she cried, wincing in pain as she stood back up "I'll not work for weeks, Guyon"
"Fucks sake, Merylin, you aint worth no more than that." He growled, looking up at her as he straightened himself out more comfortably down the front of his breeches and tied up his laces
"You bastard! You want to use my backside, you pay more….d'ya hear me or you don't come back here no more!" she yelled, stabbing an angry finger his way "An' another thing. I'll be whatever slut you want me to be when you're fucking me, Guyon but that's gonna cost you extra 'an all"
The back-hand had struck across her face before she had chance to see it coming, knocking her across the room. She fell in a heap, clutching her jaw that was already swelling and glowing an angry red.
"She is no slut, you fucking whore, you! You keep your filthy trap shut and don't ever mention her again!... D'you hear?" Guyon was glaring down at her with murderous intent.
Merylin nodded hastily, averting her eyes from his, desperate not to enrage him further. It wasn't the first time she'd had the pleasure of one of his fists. But she was an experienced whore and knew how best to placate him and save herself another thump. She stayed quiet and still, waiting for his rage to pass as it always did with unsettling, unnatural speed.
And she was right. Guyon suddenly dug his hand in his breeches pocket and threw two more coins at her. "That's my girl" he soothed, his tone a perfect contrast and smiling softly as if nothing had happened. Merylin swore she didn't know which side of him was the more frightening.
With that he bent over her and kissed her forehead; just once, gently - the tenderness of it terrifying, and then he turned and left, shutting the door quietly behind him.
Merylin stared at the closed door and thought of 'Aithne', wondering who she might be. 'Poor cow' she muttered aloud as she eased her throbbing, tender body up off the floor.