Chapter 10 – 'Mine'
The early evening breeze whispered eerily along the ramparts, cool and sharp. It nipped at the scout's nose and fluttered its way through his long shaggy locks, whipping his braids about his face with irritable scorn as if mocking his clandestine surveillance. Tristan felt the ignominy keenly, that he of all people should be skulking about in the shadows, eavesdropping upon conversation that in all fairness he had no right to be prying on.
Did he have no self-respect?
Evidently not, as the shame of it did not deter him as he continued to watch, looking down upon the courtyard, unseen from within the shadowy gloom of the battlements on which he stood. His face wore his usual inert expression, but his eyes were as incisive as ever as they flickered here and there, watching every movement, every gesture, every telling look that passed between Aithne and her companion as together they unloaded the cart that had brought them home.
Nothing escaped his tense scrutiny. Not the sight of Guyon's hands lingering on Aithne's waist after he swung her down from the cart, not the sound of their easy laughter drifting up towards him on the evening breeze. It pricked at his male pride and the scout felt it keenly. Jealousy, envy, resentment, call it what you will but imagining that whoreson soot-shoveller playing his hand and winning hers in return incensed him.
Was it possible she was falling under the spell of those superficial, youthful good looks? Damn the bastard! What chance did he, older, battle worn man that he was, have left...? Was he losing a woman he did not even possess to begin with?
Now, he wanted to walk away.
Shielding his pride, he snarled inwardly 'to the devil with her', what did he care anyway? She was just a woman. Badon fort was swarming with them, all far more willing, practised and able than she, he would wager. A bear amongst honey pots, was he not? Enough for any man craving the taste of womanly nectar. Actually, he considered, 'honey pots' was perhaps a little overly embellishing for a lot of the rag tailed females that hung around the barracks. Still, who was he to complain? One wench was as good as any other, when their skirts were over their heads, so why should her favour be of any consequence to him…?
Oh, whom was he trying to fool? Empty sentiments, every one of them 'and you know it'.
Tristan groaned inwardly, he was tired of all this aberrant conflict within himself. He had endured a sickening temper during those painfully long hours that had crawled by since Aithne had left. Endured it with the usual outward facade of stoical control with which he endured most everything.
But inside there had simmered turmoil, the like of which Tristan hadn't felt since…well …since when? He could barely recall. Since he was a rake of a lad? Most likely; gangly, awkward youth that he once was. Like most boys on the threshold of manhood, rampant with the first flushes of youthful lust, chasing skirts and imagining himself in love with any wench that would spare him an enticing smile or wanton glimpse of her copious cleavage. Then boiling with unbridled, pubescent rage when spurned for those more experienced, more attractive and most typically, possessing more coin than he. He had learnt his lessons swiftly in those early years, taken a pasting or two that he'd never forget from those older, bigger and stronger than he.
Women – shallow, greedy, fallacious creatures they were. Yes, he had learnt quickly. For years now, they had all meant little more to him than the obliging means to a desired end. But not this woman, not this seemly ordinary, insignificant woman he was so intensely aware of, even from this distance. It was as if her scent was somehow seeking him out and beguiling his senses, drawing him to her.
He smiled to himself, realising that she had been bewitching him from the very moment she had looked up at him, nervously mopping wine from his table with the hems of her own skirt.
Perhaps he had always been aware of her. Week after week, month after month, every dawn patrol the tantalising aroma of warm cinnamon drifted into the tavern, followed by the sound of soft footsteps, echoing in its wake. She had always been there, just at the edge of his peripheral consciousness, whispering to him; he had just never listened until now.
Ordinary, insignificant was she? Hardly. Not to him. Not anymore.
Who knew why fate had chosen to touch him with need for this woman, he certainly did not. But one thing he did know, this was not mere lust. This was something much, much more. The simple pleasure it was for him just to look upon her face, to hear her voice, to feel her close by - is that not why he sought her out as he did, why he did feel the sting of distance between them so intensely this day? He swore, that just to know she was near him was enough…well perhaps, not just that …
This was something so new, so extraordinary for the man that Tristan was.
He wanted her - for himself and no one else. However, he would have to give to this woman, if he was to keep her. For she had a heart to tend and a soul to soothe, he understood that. But was he ready to give…was he even capable of it?
Tristan, filled with a sudden clarity of heart stepped out of the shadows. He leant forward, his weight upon palms pressed against the parapet stone and stared down at Aithne, willing her to turn her head, look up and see him there. It was incomprehensible to him at that moment that she did not feel the same as he. That she wasn't every bit as aware of him as he was of her.
"Damn you woman…see me!" he yelled silently, not conscious that he held the breath in his lungs as he glared down at her.
A little hand rose slowly as if to smooth the fine hairs that tingled upon the back of her neck. A quizzical glance over her shoulder, a pause, looking behind but not up at the ramparts. A puzzled frown as she turned her back once more.
It was enough for Tristan. A hint of a smile crossed his whiskered lips as he watched her walk away towards the tavern. She was his. Now it was time to go get her.
...
"Enjoying yourself?" Guyon asked, his deep voice shouting over the merry din made by a troupe of musicians who sang and played as all else drank, danced and sang along with them. Aithne looked up and smiled, nodding with enthusiasm and then quickly turned her attention back to the amusing shenanigans around her.
The place was a-buzz, heaving with travelling tradesman, tinkers, soldiers and locals. People from far and wide always passed through Badon, but none so much as when the merchant ships had docked at Arbeia. There was always a raucous shindig to be had on those days. It was partly this that had persuaded Aithne to accept Guyon's invitation to take a draft with him, for she dearly liked to hear the players' merry tunes and, though she rarely danced herself, she loved to watch others whirling one another about in wild abandonment. But if she were truly honest, it was the hope that she would find him here that really swayed her to come.
There were a few familiar faces amongst the revellers - villagers, soldiers, the occasional knight she passed the time of day with, that was all. But not the knight she wanted to see. Not Tristan.
Her father who she'd greeted when she had arrived, was somewhere over the way, out of sight. He preferred a quieter tavern to drink in, so had refused to join his daughter and Guyon amidst the carousing. That nonsense was for the young'uns. He was happy, settled in a corner with a few other like-minded companions, sharing a well-filled pitcher and a set of dice.
For some time, it was as if she had been sat upon blades, so fidgety and anxious was she. The more she had tried to hide it, the worse she had become. As her eyes searched around her, she would imagine the crowds parting and there he would be, striding towards her with that arrogant gait that was so typical of him - 'Ridiculous woman!' she had chided silently. But no matter how many times she had swept her anxious eyes over and around the crowd, he was not to be seen. Disheartened and tired of the disappointment his absence was causing, she had eventually given in. He was not there, as simple as that. Besides, it was Guyon she was sat next to, was it not?
So when Aithne had stopped looking for him, she found to her surprise, that she had actually begun to enjoy herself instead. She allowed the taste of honey mead to warm her senses and the rhythmic pound of dancing feet and drums, to then carry them away.
Whoops and yells, laughter and screams rang out from the singing, dancing mass as the musicians played louder and faster. Aithne, wide eyed and exhilarated, laughed along, feet tapping away and body swaying with the musical pulse. Sat beside her on a long wooden bench, Guyon viewed her sidelong, the usual amused curl at the corner of his mouth. At this moment, she seemed happier and more at ease than he had ever known her before and he believed that finally the glacial fortress he had been chipping away at for so long was beginning to crack. Admittedly, he had filled her ale mug up a few times when her eyes were averted and yes, those eyes were a little brighter than usual and her cheeks had a deep rosy hue to them, but he'd had to get that fucking knight out of her head somehow, hadn't he?
She thought he hadn't noticed how her eyes searched the faces of all around them over and over, neck craning above heads whenever she thought he was looking elsewhere. How could he not notice, did she think him a fool? Nevertheless, the bastard hadn't appeared, at least not yet and it had been easy to distract her once he'd got a couple of draughts down her neck.
He had known all along, all it would take was a few hours alone with him to sway her thinking in his direction and he was confident it was going his way now. If she was lucky, he might even try kissing her later. He knew it was what she wanted. All those smiles she'd been giving him over her ale mug, the coy looks. She'd even touched his arm once or twice. He knew all the signs - women were so fucking transparent. She'd be in his bed this night if he played his dice carefully and then she'd be his. Ah, alcohol was such a wonderful thing! Thanks to it, Guyon had her slightly tipsy attention to himself, her smile was easy and her giggles infectious.
He could honestly say he was beginning to enjoy himself. If only that dumb whore Merylin would stop gawping over at him from across the way. What a sight she looked, jaw bruised, hair hanging limp and lifeless in untamed disarray. The woman had no self-respect. She had approached him at the ale barrel when he'd gone to fetch a pitcher, had the audacity to press him for coin! She couldn't work, she said as if it were his fault! Stupid bitch…she'd got a mouth hadn't she, he told her, his eyes flickering momentarily to his handiwork on her jaw. He hadn't liked the way she had been looking around him at Aithne, who sat watching the dancing with (thankfully) her back to the both of them. He hadn't missed Merylin's shrewd eyes either, narrowing as she studied her. With a growl he'd thrown a couple of coins her way. "Now fuck off." He had hissed as he walked away.
From his place by Aithne's side, Guyon flashed a warning glare over at Merylin, another of several over the last few minutes but this time she appeared to take note and moved away out of sight.
Finally! Now he could relax. Disregarding the woman quickly, he turned his full attention back to Aithne. He leaned down towards her, close to her ear, so as to make himself heard over the music.
"Would y'dance with me, Aithne?" he purred deeply, the heat of his breath enticing upon her cheek, just as he intended. Aithne looked up into the ice blue eyes smiling down at her and just for a second, she faltered. His mouth was a mere kiss away, so close she could feel the very same breath that had caressed her cheek, now tease her lips. She swallowed and instinctively wet her lips. Was it him or the mead that was making her feel so delightfully woozy?
Blushing shamefully all of a sudden, she turned away. "Oh… I don't think…"
"Come on..." Guyon grinned as he stood up and took her hand, "What harm could it do?"
"I...well I…" Aithne began to protest but no sooner had Guyon pulled her to her feet, did she then find herself pulled swiftly from his grasp and swirled round and round in the arms of a flaxen haired minstrel. She stared open mouthed at his grinning, painted face as he danced her through the crowds and out of sight of a furious Guyon, whose pursuit was foiled by the intervention of the minstrel's pretty cohort. The girl had jumped into Guyon's arms, steering him off in the opposite direction with well-disguised intent.
The minstrel flew in and out of the crowds pulling a breathless Aithne with him and then stopped as abruptly as he'd stolen her when they reached a doorway at the far corner of the tavern. Bewildered, Aithne just stared as the minstrel gave her a child-like grin, blew her a kiss and then promptly thrust her backwards through the open exit. Aithne shrieked as she flew backwards but instead of the pain of hard ground, she felt herself enfolded in the safety of two strong arms. No time to draw breath, she was lifted off her feet and carried out of the glare of the blazing braziers around the courtyard and into the shadows behind the tavern.
Pressed up against the cold stone wall, ensnared on either side by the arms of her captor, Aithne surrendered without a fight and looked up into the eyes that fixed her with an indecipherable stare.
"Hello," She whispered nervously, feeling a little foolish but having no other words to offer, so shocked was she. Had she just been kidnapped right from under the nose of Guyon? Had this man been there watching her every moment, jealous and desperate to steal her away from him? 'Oh yes, yes, please say it is so!' Her heart pounded with anticipation as Tristan continued to gaze at her.
"Hello," Tristan whispered back at last, not taking his eyes from hers for a moment. A long, knowing silence lingered between them once more until Tristan bent his head, achingly slowly towards hers. Her breath caught and her heart erupted in her breast.
'God's breeches, he's going to kiss me!'
So close now she could smell him, all wilderness and male. Aithne swallowed, the heat crept up her neck and tingled deep down between her thighs in response. She closed her eyes, fuelled by instinct and expectation, tilting her chin up as her lips gently parted.
Tristan's eyes flickered to her waiting mouth, lips trembling ever so slightly and breath, honey sweet from mead, softly mingling with his own. He grinned with knowing delight, longing to kiss her but instead moved closer, until his whiskered face tickled against her cheek. Not yet, not here, not in this stinking alleyway.
"Go home, Aithne" he breathed gently into her ear.
She opened her eyes, confused, disappointment clouding her face.
"What did you say..? But…I…" she stammered, embarrassed suddenly, turning her face from his.
"Shhhh…" he said gently, laying a finger on her lips. "Tis time to go home, Aithne. You reek of ale, woman… if that bastard slips any more into your mug when your head is turned, you'll be legless."
"What? He hasn't been...has he...?" she exclaimed, somewhat confounded and then laced with anger, "I am not drunk! How dare you accuse me of such a state!"
"I didna say you were drunk," he reasoned, still gentle in tone. The mood was taking a turn for the worse between them, thanks to him and he didn't like it. "I said you would be if you stay here with him any longer."
"What are y'tryin' to say?" Insulted, Aithne began to fume. With her brief flush of desire now well and truly dampened, she wanted to be gone. She started to wriggle, trying to push her way out under Tristan's arms but he grabbed her shoulders and pulled her back against the wall.
"What y' doing?" she snapped "Leave go of me!"
Ignoring her demands, Tristan replied more calmly than he felt, "You are not so naive, surely Aithne? For what ends d'ya think a man would ply a woman he can't have, with drink?"
"Tis a disgusting thing to say!"
"Tis a truth, Aithne!"
"By whose measure? Yours I suppose!" She grabbed at the hands that held her but they did not let go.
"I do not need to soak a woman in wine to get her on her back!" It was an instinctive, thoughtless quip and Tristan winced inwardly the moment it left his lips. It was not the most tactful snap to aim at the woman he would very much like to get in that position, it had to be said.
Aithne gasped; offended at the suggestion that Guyon was playing any such depraved game with her, but hurt even more so at what she regarded as Tristan, blatantly flaunting his own conquests in her face.
Conceited, nasty creature!
"No, you just pay for it with coin," she lashed back. "Now, let me go!"
"And I suppose he pays for you with cheap, shoddy ribbons!" he snarled back spitefully, grabbing her long thick braid up in his fist and waving the offending green knick-knack under her nose.
"Oh!" she cried mortified, snatching back her hair and shoving him away.
Instantly ashamed of his juvenile retort, he let her go not wishing to inflame her contempt anymore than he already had.
Why the bloody hell hadn't he just kissed her, he thought as she turned on her heel. Tact never had been a strong point of his, obviously, and even less so apologies. Thus, these were personal traits he had always found decidedly easier to ignore, so now what should he do? Just let her go?
"Aithne!" he called after her, just as a girl stepped through the tavern doorway, almost colliding with Aithne as she walked by. He heard Aithne mumble a curt apology and then hurry on, thankfully not back into the tavern to him but in the direction of her home. He had meant to follow after her but the expression on the other woman's face stopped him. She was staring after Aithne, frowning and pensive, until she disappeared across the courtyard and out of view. Then she turned around slowly to re-enter the tavern, unintentionally catching Tristan's eye as she did so.
He stared at her, his eyes flickering to a bruised, swollen jaw then back up to her now troubled gaze. Instinct told him, he needed a word or two with this wench. She sensed his intention it seemed, and she quickly turned away to make her escape but Tristan was too fast, catching her wrist before she could retreat inside. Pulling her away from the doorway, he held her cursing and struggling.
"What interest is she to you...?Tell me!" he hissed.
"Wot y'talkin' about?…Let go, you bastard! Yer hurtin' me!" she hissed back trying with all her strength to twist out of his grasp but he held her fast.
"Aithne… the woman who just spoke to you…I saw the way you were lookin' at her!"
Merylin gave a sardonic snort and sneered, more to herself that to Tristan, "So it is her."
Tristan tightened his grip on her wrist and she yelped."Satan's cock, that hurts!" he gripped tighter "Alright, alright!... tis nowt , but if y'must hear it, I'll tell ya!" she yielded and Tristan relaxed his hold. "She yer woman is she, this Aithne?"
Tristan hesitated and then answered with a tenacious snap, "will be!"
Merylin rolled her eyes suddenly, and shot him a weary look that seemed to say 'now it all makes sense.'
"What do you know of her?" he demanded once again.
"Nuffin' really, tis just that I've heard her spoke of so many times…wasn't quite sure who she was till now."
"Who speaks of her?"
"Now you know it ain't polite for a girl to go bandying 'bout the names of 'er callers…" she cooed, all false modesty and coyness suddenly, flirting half-heartedly in vain hope that he would ask no more of her, but knowing it not likely at all.
"I said ..who?" He growled unimpressed, clasping her wrist once again.
"Alright, alright!" Merylin spat back, squirming in his grasp. "The blacksmith's lackey...!Guyon...!You 'appy now?"
To her relief, Tristan relaxed and let go of her, a look of unconcern swiftly improving the frightening scowl he had been fixing her with. To his relief, the wench had confirmed only that which he already knew and he didn't see any reason to ask more. He looked again to her swollen jaw and stared for a moment, regretting now being so rough with the girl. Up close it was easy to see how young she was, could not have been more than sixteen but already bearing the scars of her unfortunate choice of life. Her hair was the colour of Aithne's he realised, and fell about her shoulders in a manic disarray of waves and curls, much how he imagined Aithne's would when she finally freed it from its bounds for him…it wasn't hard to see why Guyon used this girl.
Merylin flinched when he reached out towards her; wary of the sudden change in his mood, but it was a gentle hand that traced the length of the wound, and a low, almost compassionate voice that spoke to her.
"Tis an ugly world sometimes…."he contemplated quietly, "you should find another path to tread, girl."
With that, he turned to leave and against everything thing she knew about herself - hard, tainted mortal of the world that she already was - Merylin felt a bubble of emotion rise in her throat, fuelled by that small flicker of kindness. For sure, it was a gift rarely bestowed on her by anyone.
"Knight!" she called after him and he stopped, throwing her a quizzical look over his shoulder.
"Have a care…he wants her." Tristan noted the telltale hand that moved absently to the bruised and swollen face as she spoke of Guyon. "If you love her, keep her safe…"
Tristan frowned, wanting more. Merylin wavered and then added quietly,
"….he says things sometimes…does things…unnatural things…"
She would say no more, but from the look on Tristan's face as he strode passed her and into the tavern, she knew she did not have to.
...
Still stood on the edge of the throng of rowdy revellers, Guyon frowned as his eyes swept fruitlessly over the heaving crowd and yet again, he could not see Aithne anywhere amongst them. That woman was beginning to piss him off, that was for sure.
Last he saw her, she was being swung wildly around by some scrawny little minstrel and with so many people and so wild the singing and dancing, he'd quickly lost sight of her. Not that it had concerned him any to begin with, but now…
Where was the little…?
The shock of the first blow sent all sense and reason flying with the blood that exploded from his shattered nose. The second, a fierce, perfectly aimed boot between his legs, brought him down to his knees, gasping but unable to cry out as the pain seared through his loins. Oblivious to anything around him but the indescribable torture that wracked his body, Guyon's only possible response was to clutch desperately at his agonized groin and weep noiselessly.
Tears burnt trails down his bloodied face as he began to retch from the agony. With his head reeling in confusion and shocking disbelief, he gradually became aware of a hand gripped at his throat. He felt himself dragged up and forward, but could see nothing through the darkness of pain.
"Hear this," a dark, accented voice hissed close to his ear, "she is mine!"
A sickening reality began to dawn and Guyon slowly, painfully forced his swelling eyes open and glimpsed the knight at his throat. Tristan tightened his grip on his neck and glared at him, waiting for a flicker of acknowledgement.
Guyon wretched once more, blood-swamped spittle trickling down his chin. Then he began to chuckle - a deep, husky, unnatural sound.
"Bastard…" he groaned and then spat in Tristan's face.
The next blow sent him plummeting into oblivion.