This speedy update has even surprised me! I had some free time this weekend with the house to myself so I took advantage of it. I haven't gone over this chapter with a fine tooth comb yet so please excuse any grammatical or spelling errors, will get them sorted asap. This chapter was the most challenging yet, there's a change in pace when adding more dialogue but I'm happy with the outcome, as I hope you are.
Shout outs to Kristal, Knight's Queen, Avalon the LadyKiller, Cleo Nightingale and Gaara-frenzy for your continued support. Your feedback, and those from the new story followers, makes me want to just write more and more.
On with the knights!
The Woad in the Woods.
Chapter 8.
Tristan was finally feeling the strain of his relentless pace but was rewarded for his tenacity by their arrival at Badon Hill only a couple of hours after dusk. He slowed down to a walk as they past the burial mounds of his fallen brothers, the drifting smoke that marked each grave barely visible in the dark. It had been almost two years since Gaheris had fallen, the last of their brothers to have done so, after thirteen years of bloody servitude. Gawain had felt the loss more keenly as they had come from the same village and been fast friends from an early age. Tristan didn't pause any more at the site, disliking the memories it evoked, and moved steadily on towards the town. A hawk's cry from the trees near by let him know that Tamura had seen him safely back, he'd be unlikely to see her again until he left the confines of Badon Hill once more. He silently wished her good hunting as a diligent call went out from the ramparts above the main double gates while they were still hundreds of meters away and one heavy door slowly creaked open to welcome him home.
Home. Tristan didn't really know where that was for him any more. It had been over fifteen years since he'd last laid eyes on the village he grew up in and it's inhabitants. He often tried but couldn't recall his mother's kind face, or the grim tones of his father's voice. His memories were clouded with the darkness that permeated the house when his father had lapsed into the wanton arms of alcohol, which had become more and more frequent as the years went by. Tristan only saw pain in his haunted eyes when they chanced to settle upon him before turning once more to seek out oblivion at the bottom of an earthenware jug. On the day the Romans came to take him away his father had not been present. Tristan's mother had embraced him one last time, clasped her hands around his freshly marked face and told him that one day he would understand why. He reckoned that he did. He wondered if they were still alive and if he'd ever get to tell them so.
Some of his brothers hearts beat only for the grassy, wild plains of their motherland, counting down the days to begin their long journey back to the bosom of family and friends. Tristan recalled the long months of travel that had brought them to this island and did not relish repeating it. Others, he suspected, were more at home in this blasted outpost than they cared to admit. Bors had had no issues mingling with the locals, at least one in particular at any rate, from an early age. Tristan found it amusing that he had not yet tied the knot with Vanora, as if to keep some pretence of not being attached to this land and it's people. Though when Bors coaxed her to sing of home, none of the knights could help but feel a little lost. For Tristan, home was with his brothers for now and wherever they were, though he could do with avoiding their imminent reunion. He was late returning and knew that they would be gathered at the tavern, cajoling and rowdy, pretending a little too hard that they weren't worried by his absence.
As he crossed through the threshold of the outer wall of the town, waved through by those manning the gate, he remembered his most recent encounter with the Roman legion. He was a fool for not anticipating the scene back at the small fort, absorbing the knowledge he had become lax through his dealing with the Badon Hill battalion who let the knights have the run of the place. Though the Sarmatians kept mainly to themselves, some of them had formed friendships with the local infantry after years of fighting side by side, and had earned the Romans respect in return. There were still those few amongst them who begrudged Arthur's Pagan fighters, but on the whole the knights were warmly welcomed and a source of pride at the fortress.
He doubted the girl would be so readily accepted. He turned his head slightly to look at her briefly and was met with a defiant, yet questioning, look. In her eyes were a hundred questions vying with a hundred accusations, trying to mask the underlying fear that also resided there. She had managed to cling on to Saratos during their hurried journey, but after rallying herself at the last confrontation she truly did seem spent. He had had some small worry that she would try something foolish while surrounded by those stationed at the small fort and had been glad she had not drawn any more attention to herself by acting out. He added threatening the Centurion commander with extremely inventive physical violence followed by the added threat of arranging his immediate transfer of duties to the abandoned Antonine Wall, currently deep in Pict territory, to the list of things he had to remember to mention to Arthur when he debriefed. He wondered how he would explain bringing the Woad prisoner back from a scouting mission. Perhaps it would help if Tristan himself knew his motivation.
As he meandered through the maze of streets, past the Arthur's enclosed residence, closer to the tavern, he let the apprehensive looks from the townsfolk wash over him. Bringing a Woad in amongst the sanctuary of their dwellings was not common practise and they appeared unsure of how to handle it. Some openly stopped and stared, others scurried away, shutting their doors securely behind them, accompanied by mutters of 'blue demon'. He wondered what she would look like painted head to toe in the dye from the plant that gave Woads their name, he imagined she would look quite fierce.
He heard the tavern before he saw it and mentally braced himself, it was always busy at this time of evening.
'Tristan!'
It didn't surprise Tristan that Galahad was the first to spot him. Arguably the most passionate, emphatic of the knights, he would have found it the most difficult to have suppressed the urge to vigilantly scan the surrounding streets. More welcome cries of 'Tristan' were added to Galahad's first exclamation, followed by the more uncertain '...Tristan?'. The slight inflection at the end changing the name from a statement to a question.
Tristan lead his prisoner just shy of the well lit yard in front of the tavern as his brothers rose to their feet, some abandoning games of chance, others depositing slightly inebriated women off of their laps. Most were looking at the girl astride Saratos in confusion, Dagonet however cut straight to the point.
'You've been hurt' he said firmly, approaching his stoic brother, eyes taking in the blood on the sleeve of his tunic and trousers, already assessing the damage, immediately deeming the wounds non consequential, before appraising the girl behind him.
'The girl?' Dagonet enquired. Tristan was unsure if he meant her wounds or her presence in general so he chose the former to answer as it seemed the least complicated.
'Superficial wounds, already dressed.' came his gruff reply.
'Tristan, really? You're bringing home strays now?' Lancelot intoned with a smirk and a lift of one dark eyebrow as he drew nearer, circling around behind the horse to get a better look at the girl, catching her attention in the process.
'She's not a stray' came the curt reply. Tristan was rarely at the receiving end of the others teasing, they lost interest in the pursuit from early in their acquaintance once they realised how difficult it was to get a rise from him. Lancelot knew his brother well enough to recognise the subtle tightening around Tristan's eyes for the warning that it was, and it appeared to delight him. To get any form of reaction from his most unflappable friend was a heady thing indeed it seemed.
'I didn't realise I was monopolising the attention of the local females. There are many fine women here that would gladly spend some time with you Tris and I'm more than willing to share. No need to go to such lengths for a night of debauchery' he smiled widely, playing the innocent. Tristan didn't rise to the bait, knowing the best way to deal with Lancelot was to ignore him.
"Well I'm jus' glad he's back" Bors declared, only slurring his words slightly, clamping one large hand down on Tristan's shoulder and giving him a friendly shake whilst downing the last of his drink.
"Vanora, m'love, fetch me another of your finest" he roared, turning on his heels, waving the empty jug in the direction of the fiery haired woman and stumbling back towards the serving counter, too in his cups to be curious about the presence of the Pict.
"Tristan, what's this all about?" Gawain asked, nodding his head in the direction of the girl.
The question made him uncomfortable, though it was nigh impossible to read this by looking at him. He still had no idea what had stayed his hand from the killing blow, but it was something he needed more time to figure out by himself.
"She came upon me while I was scouting and attacked." he said, not bothering to look at the girl in question. Gawain just frowned at his reply, clearly attempting to unravel the reason why the girl was here instead of in a bloody dead mess across the wall. If he was waiting for Tristan to volunteer any more information he was to be disappointed.
Tristan was suddenly tired. He wanted to eat and drink his fill and be left alone to dissect his thoughts in the privacy of his own room, but there were still many things to be done before he would be able to replay the days events at his leisure. He turned to face his four legged companion and the bothersome load he carried. The look he gave the girl was not friendly. She was watching him warily, while simultaneously trying to observe each and every one of his brothers, as well as the rest of the punters at the tavern who in turn were enthralled by the scene unravelling before them. She was evidently apprehensive of what was to come if her flitting eyes and elevated breathing were any indication, though that stubborn head was still held high for all that. He supposed he'd spared her life thus far so it would be pointless to take her out behind the stables and finish the job now, eliminating any unwanted soul searching in the process. Kill and move on. It was all so simple, usually.
With a nod of his head, his eyes darted from the girl to the ground and back again. She was intuitive, none of his directions were lost on her before, so he knew that she understood his command, she just wasn't obeying. The Woad looked as if the last thing she wanted to do was climb down off of Saratos. She continued cautiously eyeing him and the other knights, some of whom wore quite amused expressions on their faces.
Tristan was regretting not going through the motions of getting her to dismount before they had entered the fort, saving himself the unwanted audience. He gained her scrutiny once more as he moved towards her, navigating around to her left to stand near Saratos's hind leg, passing Lancelot along the way who obligingly moved back a step, still smirking. She swivelled her upper body around to keep him in her sights, lips in a tight line, eyes narrowed, left leg tensing as if to strike. Tristan slowly reached his hand out, eyes still locked on hers, and plucked up the the looped section of rope that hung loose down the horse's side which still kept her tethered to the saddle. He was sure the townsfolk would love nothing better than the spectacle of him physically removing the Woad from atop the horse, with her arms bound and no way to break the fall she could be seriously hurt. Tristan would not hesitate to do it if he had no choice, but he gave her the opportunity to submit to him once more.
The girl's expression broke into one of anguished frustration, teeth gritted, forehead creasing in a frown. She dropped her head and looked away, staring intensely at the horse's mane. Tristan sensed the battle raging within her. It wasn't in his nature to bend to another's will, so he could identify with her difficulty in obeying him. He could see her weighing up her options, as he had witnessed her do now on many occasions, already knew she would acquiesce. Her survival instincts were too well honed not to balance the potential physical harm against such a small token of rebellion. She let out an exasperated growl, the self-conscious glance around her immediately after let him know it was unintentional and that she was angry with herself for letting it slip. Raising her chin in grim determination was becoming a familiar sight, and some small part of Tristan felt comforted by the action. He was in no mood to entertain the reasons why.
Eyes trained forward, she attempted to kick first one, then the other, foot out of the stirrups. Her right foot had slipped too far into the metal ring and she was having difficulty shaking it free. Dagonet, helpful to a fault, took one step towards her to assist, but was stopped immediately by the look the girl must have given him as her head shot around in his direction. Tristan was not privy to her expression, but Dagonet held up his hands in mock surrender and stepped back once more, throwing Tristan a curious look. The Woad shook her right foot furiously once more, finally succeeding in freeing it.
She swung her right leg over Saratos's neck, wincing as her body doubled over, reminding Tristan of her wounded stomach, scooting her body around in the process. Saratos was not the tallest horse in the fort by a long shot, but it was still a long way down. Rope still in hand, Tristan took a step back in invitation to the girl who was gathering her resolve to dismount, she spared him a poisonous glance for his trouble before considering the ground in a calculating fashion. With one large inhale of breath she slid herself off of the smooth leather, feet connecting with the earth once more. Tristan watched with apprehension as her knees gave out beneath her and her body pitched forward. Her eyes shut tight and her faced scrunched up, anticipating the impact with the ground that she was unable to brace herself against.
Tristan knew immediately that there was nothing he could do to help her from where he was standing but it was with some foreboding that he watched as a pair of darkly clad arms encircle the girl and broke her fall.
Lancelot grinned down at the wildling in his arms as her eyes opened wide in surprise.
