The Woad In The Woods
Chapter 21
Though he made sure to mask the feeling from showing on his face, it gave Tristan no pleasure to bind the woman's wrists together once more. She held her hands obligingly still as he wound the short rope around her outstretched arms. Though her bandages would cushion the chaffing he knew it would hurt. Perhaps that was why he didn't tie them as tightly as he normally would. He was annoyed with himself for making the concession, but couldn't bring himself to tighten them further.
Tristan gripped the Pict's arm above the elbow, careful to take her right, uninjured arm, and proceeded to march her out of the cell, his mood foul. She winced slightly as they crossed the threshold, raising her hands to shield her eyes from the morning sunshine.
The Pict claimed she was ready, but was Tristan?
Galahad and Bors both eyed up Tristan's charge, with rather different expressions. Galahad, with his usual genial countenance, spared the woman a grin. Bors, on the other hand, squinted at her frankly, as if seeing her for the first time. In general he was not the best company first thing in the morning.
Both of them were armed, at his request. Tristan was less concerned with the Woad trying one last attempt to escape than with Cassius or his ilk taking a fancy to an act of retaliation. It wasn't very likely, most people wouldn't cross the Sarmatian Knights, but it was better to be safe than sorry.
Tristan didn't feel as optimistic about the Woad's fate as Galahad's reassuring smile seemed to imply. All of Arthur's decisions were scrutinised mercilessly from afar. Rome always seemed quite interested in his affairs and it appeared that he was required to send back more written reports than others of his rank. Tristan swore he spent more time at his desk, squinting at parchment by fire light, than actually getting to perform the duties he was there to carry out. Arthur was not short of enemies and detractors, people who coveted his standing in the ranks and longed to take control of Badon Hill and run it as they saw fit. Arthur was Briton born, but Roman through and through. If he showed any sympathy or leniency to Rome's enemies it would be decried as weak, perhaps even so far as conspiratorial.
"My fuckin' 'ead is poundin'", Bors grumbled, "Why did Arthur want to talk at this Gods forsaken time o the mornin'. Doesn't he know I need my beauty sleep?"
"Bors, there are not enough hours in the night that could help improve that mug of yours",Galahad retorted jovially.
Tristan was in no mood for chit chat and moved forward with his prisoner so that the two Knights fell into step behind them. He stole a glance at the Woad, who was tense and slightly stooped in pain, but managing to keep up with his stride without causing him to drag her along. She was putting on a brave face, he'd give her that. But Tristan could feel the thrum of tension that vibrated through her body, communicated through his loose hold on her arm. The sooner he got her to Arthur, the sooner she would no longer be his burden.
"When we're finally through with this miserable Wall I'm gonna spend my nights drinkin', screwin' and fightin'... probably in that order." Bors continued, " I'll sleep all fuckin day, and send out all my bastards to make me some coin, and give their Da a moments peace."
"Well you won't have much longer to wait. Jols said Arthur received a rider from Londinium late last night. Tristan, did you hear? Do you think it has to do with our release papers?" Galahad asked hopefully.
"Who knows" Tristan mumbled. He caught the sidelong look that the Pict was giving him.
''Now's not the time for speculation", he threw back over his shoulder, with a pointed nod towards the woman who was far too intuitive for her own good.
''I guess not'' Galahad replied, some of his exuberance diminishing.
Tristan had been successfully keeping any thoughts of their impending exodus from Britain at bay. To be truthful he didn't quite know how he felt about it. Some of his brothers had been talking about their plans on and off over the past months, excitement building amongst them as they would finally be free of all obligation to Rome. Well, unless they had the misfortune to father sons. The final sting in their duty to Sarmatia's conquerors.
Currently, with the wildling woman in tow, thoughts of packing up and travelling for months across sea and land to return to his homeland seemed decidedly appealing. He could leave all of this sorry mess behind and never look back.
However, nothing got done quickly when Rome was involved. Though they were in their final year of servitude there was no telling which day or month their freedom would finally be granted. Receiving word from Londinium was sporadic, but not altogether unusual. For all they knew Arthur was just receiving the latest pontifications from on high regarding the right and proper way for a Christian to behave. It didn't do to dwell on speculations.
As the group wove their way through the narrow streets towards Arthur's central courtyard, the townspeople going about their mornings work made space for the men and strange woman. With the Pict in tow they were garnering more attention than usual. Most people were making their way to the market, either with wares and foods to sell, or empty baskets ready to be filled with what was needed for the day.
Tristan's attention was drawn further up their path ahead, where the streets opened up a bit more. There was some hubbub happening. This was the area you would usually find entertainers; jugglers, singers and musicians, vying for the attention and coins of the crowd. Tristan eyed the small raucous gathering suspiciously. Something didn't feel right. There seemed to be at least five Roman soldiers in attendance, with members of the public occasionally giving a small laugh, or voicing encouragement to whoever was entertaining them.
"Tristan, what's going on?" Galahad voiced behind him, echoing Tristan's concern that something was off.
"I don't know" he replied quietly, determined to find out.
As Tristan made a beeline for the small gathering he began to overhear what the townsfolk were saying.
"...tryin' to scale the wall..."
"...you part squirrel, boy?! Haha!"
"...go on...", this one was punctuated with the sound of a slap that elicited a small whimper.'' ..answer the man!.' There was more laughter.
Finally close enough to see between the onlookers as they passed, Tristan spied a Roman guard, his grip tightly holding aloft the wrist of a boy who couldn't have been more than eight or nine years of age. The boy looked terrified, scrabbling at the soldier's hold with his free hand, trying desperately to free himself. He was dirty and unkempt looking, his eyes glassy with unshed tears and one whole side of his face was showing the early signs of bruising. He was Woad.
"..too scrawny to feed to the lions! Bwahahaha!"
The Sarmatians didn't like to overstep their bounds. In general what the Roman legion got up to was of no interest to the Knights, and not their place to comment on. Though the tinge of cruelty didn't sit well with him, Tristan made to move on. In one deadly swift move, that he would later admit took him unawares, the girl at his side wrenched her arm free of his grasp. His split second delay in reaction meant that when he grabbed for her again he missed her by a hairs breadth.
"Hey!" Bors called from behind him as the Pict shoved her way passed the bystanders, elbowing passed disgruntled men and women who called out angrily to her, followed by shocked cries as they took in her appearance.
Everything went a little chaotic at that point.
Tristan was hot on her heels though, shoving his way through the crowd, and witnessed, with some satisfaction, the shock on the Roman's face as the woman, hands gripped together as if in prayer, threw her entire weight behind an almighty blow right to his face. All three fell in a heap to the ground with the force of her attack.
With a quickness that belied her injuries the wildling woman delivered a powerful kick, navigating their tangled mess of limbs to land squarely on the soldier's stomach, debilitating him further. In a moment of deja vu, Tristan spotted her quick hands close around the dagger at the prone man's belt as she rolled herself away from him. She was back on her feet before the other soldiers had even begun to react after their initial shock.
The Woad boy had barely scrambled upright again before she forcefully shoved him behind her. The sharp blade clasped between her bound wrists now swayed menacingly from side to side as she tried to keep all of her enemies in her sights, backing away a few steps, placing herself between the crowd and the boy. In the blink of an eye Tristan was transported back once more to their first encounter. This time, however, he could sense the terror that was coursing through her, hidden just behind her feral, snarling stance. Blood dripped anew from her bandages, and her body was smudged in dirt once more from her tussle. She was vibrant and wild, untamed. Tristan was put in mind of a cornered vixen protecting her pups.
It was as if everyone had momentarily held their breath and forgotten how to react. Just as suddenly, as if the spell had broken, the remaining Roman soldiers had their blades drawn and were advancing on her.
"Fucking Woad bitch!"
"Get her!"
"Tristan?", Galahad questioned as Tristan stepped away from the reinvigorated crowd, into the impending fray.
Within seconds of noticing him all the Romans had paused in their agitated advance as Tristan casually placed himself between the Woads and their would be executioners. The soldiers all lowered their weapons in confusion as he gave them a hard stare from behind his fall of hair. He could see that Galahad and Bors had followed him out into the open space, as he knew they would. Happy that the Romans had indeed stopped for now, some of them clearly eager to see what he had planned for the Woads, Tristan turned his back on them, facing down the woman who's white knuckled grip on the dagger only slightly trembled. Blood ran down her left arm, to drip slowly with a little 'pat-pat' from her elbow, staining the dirt below her a darker shade of brown.
Tristan slowly took a step towards her. The boy behind her clung on to the back of her tunic, peering slightly around her to look upon Tristan with equal parts awe and fear. With a scowling face, Kyla forced them to take another step back away from the Sarmatian, her focus now solely on him. Her darkly framed green eyes spoke to him of inevitability, of a dance that was nearing it's end. With his next unhurried step, Tristan placed his hand upon the hilt of his sword. The woman's eyes darted down to follow the movement. When they returned to his face they did not lack any more determination than before.
With one more languid step Tristan got closer to the point of her dagger, and sufficiently far enough away from the Roman blades behind him. As he had on countless occasions leading up to this point, he studied her. She was fearsome, in her own unpredictable way. She would not make that last move towards him to attack, he was confident. She was just more than ready to defend herself, and the boy, most likely unto death. The situation was all too achingly familiar.
There were a few routes Tristan could have taken to bring this drama to a close, but as soon as he'd stepped forward he knew which way it would inevitably play out. He spared the Pictish woman one last glance, trying to convey to her to rein in any urges she might have to plunge a dagger in his back, as he turned once more to face the legionnaires. Tristan adopted a relaxed stance, one thumb hooked onto his belt, the other, rather tellingly, still resting on his sword.
Since it was not in the Sarmatian's nature to interfere with the daily coming and goings of the other military men stationed at the fort, it was with some looks of disbelief that he was greeted with when he faced them.
"Do we have a problem here?" Tristan question was quiet and was loaded with menace.
His brothers unhurriedly moved in to action. Galahad came to stand by his side, feigning a similarly relaxed stance, while Bors brazenly took out his twelve inch hunting knife and began to clean the dirt from under his nails in a disinterested manner, pausing only to snort up some phlegm and spit it noisily at the ground.
Tristan could feel the barely contained energy behind him and though it made his shoulders itch to have such an open target on his back he knew it was important to not show that to the Romans.
'"Kyla..."
Tristan's head turned slightly towards the name that was uttered softly out of the young boys lips, quickly shushed quiet again by the older female.
The Roman that the girl had launched herself at had finally gotten to his feet, looking no worse for wear after the altercation, other than the murderous look on his flushed face. His fellow soldiers looked decidedly unsure of themselves and the situation in general, never expecting the turn in events. The crowd had hushed and rather smartly widened the circle around the main players.
"We caught that dirty Woad pup trying to scale the wall from their side. We seized him fair and square, he's ours to do with as we see fit." he blustered, lacking any confidence behind his seemingly firm words.
His fellow soldiers cast unsure looks amongst themselves, already beginning to distance themselves from the situation. All but the Roman with the hurt pride, and possible hurt coccyx, began sheathing their weapons. At the sound of metal on leather it was clear that it was also dawning on the lead soldier that this was one of those times you got to choose your battles. He threw a none too friendly look at his unhelpful comrades.
"I think we can take it from 'ere, boys" Bors said, leaving no room for debate as he proceeded to pick at something between his teeth with the tip of his very large and very deadly knife.
With one last dirty look, the scorned Roman turned on his heels, scattering his fellow soldiers and any townsfolk who got in his way. As the Roman soldiers left it only took seconds for the crowd to disperse, not wanting the attention of the Sarmatian Knights to fall upon them.
Satisfied that the immediate danger had passed, Tristan returned his focus on the Woad woman behind him. Her arms had dropped significantly, so that the blade was no longer pointed at his heart...though he didn't care for it pointing vaguely at his crotch any better.
She looked...relieved? Confused? Definitely wary, though that seemed to be a default for her. The young Pictish lad at her back couldn't decide which of the Knights to keep his awe inspired gaze on. He made a move to step out from behind her shadow but she firmly elbowed him back into place.
Tristan had to work to rein in the triumphant little smile that desperately tugged at his lips.
Names held power, and now he possessed hers.
"Drop the knife...Kyla"
...ooOOoo..
AN
*waves white flag*
Don't hate me. As ever I'm apologetic for how slow these chapters come along. As a follower of many a fine fanfiction that gets posted at a snails pace I understand your frustration. Unfortunately the same old excuses don't change! Just exceptionally busy, as usual.
Very glad I've finally got to this scene though. Primarily so I can stop referring to Kyla as the 'woad/pict' etc from Tristan's POV! He's been hungry to know her name for a long time.
About time Bors showed up properly and did a little work too.
Huge gratitude to FlowerChild23, emberlies, Shalise40, Jofrench22 and the ever kind AvalonTheLadyKiller for taking the time to review and leave your thoughts on the last chapter.
Really hope you enjoy the latest offering.
I think you might know who the determined little boy is ;)