Thank you to everyone for reading/and or reviewing. As always it is much appreciated. Much love to by BETA who remains 'incognito' :) - you are wonderful my dear. Again this chapter just kept getting longer and longer and so I had to cut it in two - but that means hopefully, Chapter 12 will be completed and up much sooner. :)
CHAPTER 11 - 'Thirst'
"Enough!" Gawain roared, grasping Tristan's shirt in his fists and slamming him hard against the tavern bar. "For fuck's sake, the man's had enough!"
Breath seething through clenched teeth, Tristan wrestled against the grip at his chest, spitting and cursing as he tried to free himself and finish the job. Just as determined, Gawain held fast, anxious for his friend's sense to return from this bizarre exhibition of rage, before Tristan ended up killing the man who lay sprawled out in his own blood.
He had no idea what Guyon had done to provoke Tristan but whatever the crime, Gawain wasn't going to argue about it. Tristan clearly had a reason and that was good enough for him. However, neither would he stand by and allow his friend to beat a man half to death in front of a tavern full of witnesses. For all who looked on, it must appear an unprovoked and iniquitous attack and Gawain was more than aware there could be repercussions, even for a King's knight.
Especially for a King's knight!
Insubordination on this level - that of one of his best cavalry warriors beating a smithy's lackey half to death - would not sit well on Arthur's shoulders.
Tristan and Gawain scuffled once more but the larger knight's strength finally won out and Tristan ceased his struggle. Gawain held on for a few moments longer, relaxing his grip only when he was sure that he recognised the look of resigned restraint in Tristan's eyes.
Tristan growled resentfully, glaring at Gawain before shoving him off. He stood for a moment raking agitated fingers through his long, straggly locks as he threw a look of disgust over his handy work on the tavern floor. Then abruptly he turned and strode away, pushing a path through the uneasy, gawping crowd without a word and marched off across the courtyard in the direction of the bakery.
...
No matter how many times she mulled the scene over in her mind, Aithne just could not make sense of what had happened in that alley behind the tavern this evening. What manner of man was that knight and what the devil was it he wanted from her anyhow? Apparently, not what she had thought or hoped, as she had stood pinned to the wall, breathless and mesmerized by the wild beauty that held her there.
Just for those few moments, she had been his captive, helpless and as she well knew, shamefully willing. He practically abducted her from beneath Guyon's nose after all and then she, almost melting with the anticipation of his kiss that she was so certain he was about to bestow, found herself not seduced, but ordered off home and left feeling like a scolded child!
A desolate sigh whispered through Aithne's lips, she was tired, confused and a faint throb was gathering at her temples. She laid her head on her folded arms which rested upon the table at which she sat and closed her eyes, comforted by the sombre, peaceful air that filled the small room.
A vague notion that she could no longer hear the distant hum of music and song from the tavern, passed through her weary thoughts and it suddenly occurred to her that she would have some explaining to do to Guyon on the morrow. What on earth was she going to say to him, leaving him high an dry that way? She groaned inwardly. He would be furious with her no doubt, and she could hardly blame him for that. Oh no, she thought, he would probably come knocking at the door any moment seeking her out. She could not face that right now, she needed a story to tell him, for the ridiculous truth would never do and she had neither the mind nor inclination to think of that now.
With a resounding crack, the wooden bakery door suddenly crashed open, sending a shimmering of dust cascading wildly down from straw-thatched roof. Aithne shrieked loudly and jumped to her feet, upsetting her seat in her haste.
"Gods above!" she exclaimed, staggering back and stumbling over her upturned stool. "What in heaven's name...?"
In the doorway, stood glowering across at her was Tristan, his eyes flashing with a dangerous, impenetrable glare which never left her as he stalked in, slamming the door shut with a short, sharp backward kick of his boot. Another flurry of debris rained down and settled on the stunned silence that fell upon the room.
Aithne, dumbfounded and shaken, opened her mouth to speak but the words just would not form. She had expected Guyon to be standing there, not Tristan and it was taking her head more than a moment to catch up and make sense of what she was seeing.
There was blood spattered upon his shirt and smeared about his face and her first rational thought was that of fear - amazingly not fear for herself given the rather fierce way in which he chose to call upon her - but for him. Her eyes raked over him anxiously, searching for a cut, a wound, anything to explain the state in which he now stood before her.
"Oh, Tristan! What has happened to you?" she cried hoarsely. She took a step to rush to his side and then stopped, held back by a sudden wave of unsettling doubt.
His face was as it often was, familiar in its expressionless poise. But oh! Those eyes...sparkling beneath the shroud of tousled locks, she swore a tempest brewed there the like of which would eat her alive!
Instinctively Tristan swept a sleeve across his blood-tainted face but did not reply. It was strain enough trying to sate the precarious rage, which bubbled beneath his solemn countenance, without attempting to speak.
Tristan knew the moment he saw her that he should never have come here. He had no right to be terrifying this tender-hearted woman with his intemperate moods and selfish, animalistic desires. For his mood was a dangerous one, riled up and not yet quenched.
He'd wanted to kill him… Christ, how he'd wanted to kill him!...Would have done too, if Gawain had not held him off and denied him the sweet satisfaction of beating the life out of that worthless piece of shit. It sat heavy on his shoulders, like the stench of failure in battle almost and it tore at Tristan to think of it so. He felt parched with a thirst ill satisfied. A thirst to hurt, to kill, to fuck…anything that would slake his blood-wet appetite that had been provoked so intensely and it was to Aithne's door that it had brought him.
Why...because he wanted her? Because he believed she wanted him? Did he truly think to come here and vent his violent lust on this woman stood so precarious before him? This mild and temperate woman whom he had not even yet kissed?
What the fucking hell had he been thinking? He hadn't been thinking had he? He just headed straight where his instinct led him. To the place where he wanted most of all to find the salve that would ease this wretched frustration eating him alive right now. To the woman he wanted, the woman he needed.
Unendurably fractious, ravenous with need for gratification, Tristan shuddered inwardly as he breathed; trying so hard to fight the animal-like desire which urged him to take Aithne where she stood. He closed his eyes for a moment, imagining himself buried deep between her thighs, she crying out, nails raking his naked flesh as he filled her.
He looked back at Aithne and the licentious thoughts swiftly flew away. She looked like a lost and frightened lamb waiting for the wolf to gobble her up. 'What is it she sees here before her' Tristan thought, his anger suddenly snapping at Aithne's heels 'a monster?'
Damn the woman – why must she stand there looking so bloody troubled and confused? Why can't she sense his need, share it? Why doesn't she just seize him, kiss him, devour him…love him?
But no, there she was wide eyed and silent, without it seemed, any intention of coming to him or indeed any flicker of reciprocated desire.
What were they doing stood here in this agonising limbo? But short of just taking the woman and hoping for the best, he had no idea what to say or do. But he had to try at least, didn't he?
"Come here" he demanded suddenly, his voice rusty and low as he studied every subtle reaction on her face and body. Maybe if he coaxed just a little, tried hard to reign in the fervour with which he wished to take her, she would respond, yield willingly – she was nervous that was all and who could blame her?
But she did not respond. She just stood there staring at him, confused and clearly unnerved.
So he made a move towards her.
Tristan was under no illusion that Aithne could be feigning her obvious anxiety, but even so, the sight of her recoiling at his approach still cut him deep. As was the way with Tristan, a fresh welt of anger swelled to smother the hurt, causing him to lose his restraint for just a moment. However, it was a moment too long and before he could stop himself, he lurched forward, grabbed her face in his hands and kissed her hard on the mouth.
He willed her to understand. To respond. To return his kiss with the same desperate passion he so badly needed to drown them both in. His fingers bruised her face, his lips smothered her, stealing the air from her lungs. Aithne, helpless in his arms, closed her eyes and felt her spirit begin to soar. It was terrifying and wonderful. She could hear her heart pounding wildly in her ears, felt her legs tremble as Tristan held her fast. Harder he kissed her, deeper, longer, his whiskers rough against her skin, his tongue forcing its way into her mouth, thrusting and searching. Oh, God what is he doing to me…I cant breathe…I can't…"
Suddenly, desperate with the need for air, desire vanished as instinct took over and in an effort to free herself, Aithne began to grab at the hands holding her face and push hard at his chest. Angry and misunderstanding her sudden struggle as rejection, Tristan simply tightened his embrace, refusing to give up the hope that he could make her want him as he wanted her.
He heard a cry wailing from her throat, the sound stifled by his mouth hot and desperate upon hers. And to his disgrace; it excited him.
"Don't fight me, damn it!" He snarled through the kiss, one hand letting go of her face and reaching down, grabbing her rump and pulling her hard against him. He was getting nowhere and he knew it, but he couldn't give up yet, he had to try… Shit, he was throbbing like a bitch!
To her relief, Aithne could now turn her head and breathe freely again but a new fear took over, for she knew now she had no control over what was happening between them.
"Let me go!" she cried as Tristan hastily curled his fingers around her thick, chestnut braid and pulled back her head to face him, silencing her with his hungry mouth once again.
Just one more kiss and I'll let her go, I swear it. Just one more…
Aithne shoved and twisted in his arms with all her strength, drawing a delighted growl rumbling from deep within his throat as the flesh of her thighs writhed against him. Oh yes… yes! Tristan began to tremble involuntarily - Fuck! She was going to make him come in his breeches! He had to stop this and now.
'He's not going to stop!' Aithne cried soundlessly. 'Oh god, he's going to...'
Just as Tristan began lifting his mouth from hers Aithne seized his bottom lip between her teeth and bit down hard.
"Fuck!" Tristan yelled suddenly, letting her go. "You little vixen!" Stunned, he wiped at the blood that welled on his lip with his knuckles, still cursing under his breath.
Not wasting a moment, Aithne turned and grabbed her iron ladle from the pot hanging in the unlit fireplace and held it out threateningly before her, remnants of the morning's porridge flying off it and landing upon the floor with an indignant splat.
Another time, Tristan would have laughed to see her so, but not now. Anger, revulsion, disbelief stared back at him and for the first time in his life, he felt a stirring of shame and the recognition of it sickened him.
What was this woman doing to him?
"Get out of my house….d'ya hear!" She snarled, thrashing the ladle wildly before her and looking with all intent and purpose that she was about to beat him to a pulp with it or at least, give it a damn good try. "GET OUT, I said!...You are disgusting! An animal and I'll not have y'near me! You despicable pig... I hate you!"
The hurt he felt at that moment shook him in his boots and his ardour rapidly extinguished with it. No sword thrust deep into the groin could have injured him as much as those last three words just spat at him. He wavered a moment, unable to retort, despising himself for his own weakness.
Brought down by a woman's scorn… him!
Instinctively he wielded his hurt into anger, casting aside any idea that he should be on his knees to this woman, begging her to forgive his loathsome behaviour towards her.
"An animal am I..?" He bit back at last, desperate to wound her as she had undeniably wounded him - a warrior's instinct and one he would have done well to forget at this moment.
"Aye…that is as maybe," he quipped with an arrogant shrug, stepping back and making a calculated show of looking her up and down. "But I was surely mistaken in you, Aithne…" He mused spitefully, pausing to pass his tongue deliberately across his still bleeding lip, "…for I thought you were all woman…but yer just a feeble heart and a frigid body and what use is that to a man, ey?..." He snarled, delighting in the look of pure anguish now painting Aithne's face "….for it takes a real woman to tame an animal such as I."
That said, he angrily snatched up the ladle now hanging languidly in a mortified Aithne's hand and threw it across the room before stalking out, banging the door shut behind him.
...
It was dark outside in the courtyard, with only the flickering blush of a scant number of braziers placed here and there to light the way. Tristan stood in the gloom, with his back against the bakery door that he had almost ripped off its hinges, and took a long, sobering breath.
He stayed where he was a while, hoping to hear the door swing open behind him and to hear her voice once more, even if it was to shower him with abuse that he so richly deserved. But nothing, not a sound emanated from within the bakery walls. Not even the suspicion of weeping. This disappointed him no end for he imagined himself gathering her up and kissing away her tears, crushing her to his chest, begging her forgiveness. However, he knew that should she appear now, he would do no such thing. He believed himself far too proud, too arrogant, too slated in his odious masculine ways ever to allow himself to appear so vulnerable.
What a pitiful bastard he was at times.
He closed his eyes, clenched his jaw and let out a shuddering, miserable sigh.
His whole being still ached with lord knows what concoction of emotions – anger, desire, hurt, regret – each and every one seemed to be tearing him up, clamouring for release from the confines of his bemused heart. If this was what love did to a man, he wanted none of it.
Love…Is that what this was?... Did he love her?
Surely not, how could he, he who had never loved a living soul in his whole life before?
His thoughts suddenly turned to that of Gawain. He who always professed to love all women – Tristan now doubted that very much – how could he love so many, so freely if this is what it did to you?
Thinking back to what had just passed between himself and Aithne, he groaned inwardly. God knows he had deserved his hauling across the coals but she had not deserved the scorn he had thrown her back in return. It had been fallacious and cruel and beneath even his dignity. He had most certainly lost her now and love her or not, it hurt like hell.
He could hear music and song once again, drifting from the tavern, the sound of which brought a dispassionate smile to his lips and he opened his eyes. The mess he had left in his wake a short time ago was obviously cleared up and forgotten already.
Christ, he could do with a drink!
He contemplated returning to the tavern, but knew if he took solace in there, he was liable to drown in his cups and sod knows what he'd end up doing then. The thought of waking up draped over some foul smelling old strumpet or two, thankfully didn't appeal to him for once. He may have thrown away all chance he had of possessing Aithne, but he had no mind to drown his sorrows between the legs of any old trollop just yet.
Not tonight anyway.
Tonight he needed Aithne – He would go back to his room alone and wallow in self-pity there. Besides, he'd spent many a lonely night with just his calloused palm and good imagination for company. He had a full wineskin hung up by his bedside and the memories of her plump, enticing curves pressed up against him still burning vividly – if this was all he could have, it would have to do.
...
Tristan had ripped off his shirt, kicked off his boots and just squeezed out a large mug of wine from the wineskin beside his small, wooden cot when a furious rapping echoed upon his door.
"Piss off!" He growled angrily. He was in no mood for visitors, he just wanted to get drunk… very drunk…in peace and alone.
Instantly the door flew open and to Tristan's utter surprise, Aithne burst into the room, leaving the door swinging behind her.
She marched up right up before him, fury spitting out of her.
"You…you….arrogant piss-shite!" She screamed and slapped him hard across the face. Stunned, Tristan took a step back, rubbing his hand across the stinging flesh of his cheek with a look of complete disbelief on his face.
Fuck, did she just hit me?
"How dare you step foot in my house…my home!... and hail me unworthy of you…you!" she added with a venom that spoke only too clearly just how unworthy a shit she thought he was.
Tristan just stared, unable to answer, still staggered by the shock of her actually having the nerve to slap him. "I am not woman enough for you, am I not?" She yelled thumping her chest with her fist, "or should that be whore enough, ey? Well, you listen good…I am more of a woman than you will ever be a man. I have more self-respect, more dignity, more heart than you will ever have…you swollen-headed, wench-chasing, pig of a man…" searching about her frantically she grabbed the first object she saw, which was the wine mug just recently filled and she slung it hard at Tristan's head. He ducked swiftly as it flew past, showering him with wine as it careered through the air and crashed against the wall behind, "…and I can bloody well chuck stuff harder than you an' all!"
Gods but she was gorgeous when she was angry! Face full flush and bountiful breasts heaving. He'd never imagined such courage in her bones, such audacity existed within her – it was beautiful to behold.
Aroused almost instantly, Tristan felt the strain in his breeches. Rigid beyond belief and throbbing painfully he turned his back in an effort to hide the obvious. If she didn't get out of there quick, he swore nothing would stop him finding out just how much a of woman she was, this time.
He reached out, leaning his weight upon both hands against the wine soaked wall behind him as if to steady himself and dropped his head below his shoulders.
"Leave Aithne" he hissed reluctantly.
Unperturbed she snapped back, "I will not, not before I've said what I came to say."
She heard a low, throaty chuckle before he asked, "You mean there's more?" he glanced over his shoulder at that point, a dark, hungry look in his eyes which made the tiny hairs on the back of Aithne's slender neck tingle. "You know what will happen if you stay" he said, his eyes flickering with dangerous promise. "I am at breaking point, woman. If you wish to leave here before the morn…go now."
Aithne swallowed, the colour rising up her throat, her eyes drawn to the bare contours of his magnificently lean, muscular torso "I am not afraid of you"
"Well y'damn well should be!" he yelled suddenly, turning round to face her "Now fuck off out of here, while I've still a mind to let you!"
Aithne trembled but held his gaze. His ferocious dismissal stung her viciously and to her dismay, she felt tears begin to gather. She blinked them away quickly, determined not to give him the satisfaction.
"You don't scare me with your threats! You haven't the nerve…"
My God what was she doing?
This was nothing short of goading a wild animal.
Was she mad?
Aithne's whole body shook and her heart pounded, almost bursting from the confines of her quivering frame but she spoke the truth - she felt no fear of him. It was fear of what her own inadequacies might prove to be now she had met his challenge.
Did she have the nerve to see this charade out to its inevitable end?
"You accused me of being feeble…of being frigid…! Well, tis you with the feeble heart!...Too feeble…nay, too gutless a heart for a woman like me!"
As she turned to leave, the door slammed shut before her eyes and she found herself enclosed by two arms leant upon it, either side of her. Her heart stopped and then stumbled wildly on.
"I'm tired of playing games, woman…" the words breathed against her neck. "I am a fool."
She felt lips against her throat. Tentative, hesitant…almost nervous lips. Slowly, carefully they moved to her jaw, her ear… warm, tender, nipping at her lobe. She closed her eyes, letting her head fall back against his shoulder. She sighed raggedly as arms circled around her waist and pulled her close.
"Lie with me, Aithne" he whispered, still kissing her gently "…be mine."