A/N: I love cliffhangers! And in particular the reactions in the reviews afterwards :) That said, sorry for leaving the chapter at such an --evil but necessary -- moment and for failing to update for such a long time. I wanted to finish my other story and in order to do that I had a few very difficult chapters to write, which I wanted to get done first. After that, I redecorated my room :D.

I hope you haven't given up on me, because I intend to finish this story. There was a question in a review ( by Alyssa) about how many chapters it would be. I've no idea. The complete plot is in my head, but chapters always turn out longer than I plan, because I'm too fond of minor characters, but I'd say at least ten more.

Everybody thanks for reviewing and I hope you enjoy this chapter, in which --oh, shock!-- we get to see a bit of Tristan. ( And no, I did not mean it that way!)

Chapter 35

"I believe you have some things to say to me," he said. "Say them."

Slowly she turned back, facing him. Her eyes measured him while he stood there silently. She took a step closer.

Tristan didn't move.

Before she could stop herself, her arm had swung back and dealt a forceful blow to his jaw with her right fist. Tristan's head snapped backwards, not having expected her to lash out in the least.

Isabelle clasped her hand over her mouth when she saw him press a hand against his sore jaw. He would kill her, that she was certain of. But oh, seeing that infuriatingly impassive expression dissolve into incredulous shock was worth a thousand painful deaths. Two thousand. An eternity of pain.

Tristan moved his jaw to check if it was broken. When he had assured himself it wasn't, his eyes fixed themselves on her.

She swallowed.

Suddenly his eyes narrowed in anger. Isabelle staggered backwards, but Tristan had already lunged forward with an alarming speed, straight through her defences.

Sparring and Arguing

Tristan lay sprawled on his back, panting heavily. There was hardly a muscle left in his body that didn't hurt. Gods, the girl had been right a few months ago when she'd told him smugly that she was fast and cheated.

By the stinging of several parts of his skin he deducted he had a dozen scratch marks, one of which was still oozing blood. Grimacing, he moved his left hand on which she had left a bite mark. When he took a deep breath his ribs protested vehemently.

To add insult to injury, a drop of rain fell on his nose, instantly followed by many others, but Tristan didn't feel like moving, not even when the clouds burst open and water poured down on him.

Isabelle wasn't moving either. She was lying next to him, about two feet away, sprawled on her back like he was. He could hear her strained breathing.

When he had told her she had some things to say to him he had not expected her to take a swing at him, but he had to admit there was something relieving in having a good fight to get out of the way that which had stood between them. He had, of course, not expected her to think the same way, but he wasn't complaining. It were his ribs that were complaining. He remembered the elbow she'd planted there with vicious enthusiasm well.

He'd caught her shoulders in a strong grip after she'd punched him, but somehow she'd slipped away, delivering another blow to his jaw. Her feet in a slightly spread stance, her fists in front of her face, and a provocative glint in her eyes, she'd challenged him and he had picked up the gauntlet.

She'd fought with everything she had, compensating his greater height and strength with agility and tricks. Very mean tricks. Tristan had felt his temper rise and stopped holding back. His revenge for his bruised jaw had knocked her to the ground, but she'd rolled over, jumping to her feet immediately, though she'd had a slightly disbelieving expression on her face.

After that, he'd fought a wildcat. He'd had her pinned to the ground three times, but three times she'd wriggled out from under him when he was distracted by either her nails or her teeth.

It had ended when she'd kicked his legs out from under him and he had dragged her down with him, both of them landing flat on their back, knocking the wind out of them. He was still lying in the same position, now being pounded with rain.

Tristan was surprised to hear a chuckle coming from his left, followed by a snort of laughter. He looked at her to see her open her mouth wide to catch rain drops. She was already soaked, as he was. Water trailed down her face in rivulets.

She swallowed and turned on her side, giving him a somewhat shy grin. "Thanks, Tristan," she said and patted him on his chest. Slowly, and moaning quietly, she scrambled to her feet and hobbled off, pressing a hand against her side while swearing under her breath.

Tristan watched her go.

Suddenly it hit him that he had made a mistake. She'd seen his offer to have a go at him as an apology to her. It was an apology of some sort, though he couldn't bring himself to say it aloud, but not the sort she thought it was. Tristan sat up straight when he realised their fight had meant closure to Isabelle. They had solved their differences, in a more than direct way, and that was it. For her.

It was not what he had intended. He wasn't even sure what his intentions were when he'd seen her shooting arrows at her target. Before he knew it he'd moved to stand behind her, observing her shot.

What the hell had he been thinking? That the smiles she gave Gawain would instantly be turned to him? Tristan growled in frustration. When had he become such a fool?

He'd lost her. He'd pushed her away. She'd given herself to him freely and without inhibition, a rare gift from someone who'd been through what she had, and he had thrown it into her face with a sneer instead of cherishing it.

Tristan groaned and got up from the ground, threading his fingers through his matted hair.

All because he was afraid to be weak. Because he was afraid to lose the clarity of his existence. He would never admit it, but she'd unnerved him. He'd unnerved himself.

Desire he could handle, but when she'd pulled him down on her bed, she'd pulled him into something more. Something very unfamiliar. Something in which his life would not be as simple and clear-cut as it was, something he did not have control over.

He'd spent fifteen years keeping as much of his life under control as he could. He'd become the best archer of the knights and had perfected his skill with his blade until he needed only one or two strikes to bring down an enemy. When he held his blade in his hand, he held his fate in his hand.

He'd not had any friends with him when he left Sarmatia and he'd quickly begun to see the need to keep his distance, after watching one half of a twin die of an infected wound and his grieving brother run carelessly into battle, getting the death he asked for.

Tristan despised – no, hated not having control over himself and she – she had made him feel as if he were adrift. He'd reacted in the only way he knew, lashing out, bringing his life back under control, thereby mercilessly hurting the woman who had undermined his determination.

It had never happened to him before. He'd always made it perfectly clear beforehand to any other woman he'd been with that he was not looking for anything more than a tumble. It hadn't stopped many of them, although it did cause problems sometimes afterwards when he stopped showing interest, problems he was trying to avoid in the first place. He'd never felt guilty. But now…

Regret? Was that what he was feeling? How could it? He had what he wanted, didn't he? He'd achieved his goal. Then why had he confronted her only a few moments ago? Why did he want to go after her right now?

Tristan stood in doubt a few heartbeats, before he took off, heading Isabelle's way.

It was still morning and the streaming rain had driven the fort's residents off the streets. He spotted Isabelle's figure crossing the courtyard, not bothered in the least at getting drenched. Quickly he went after her.

Isabelle leaped over a puddle, wincing slightly when she landed, and stopped under the shelter of the cloth spread out between the Tavern and the next building, which usually provided customers with shade, but which now looked about to collapse under the weight of the water gathering on top of it.

Vanora waggled outside with a broom in her hand and began poking the lumps in the cloth. Water splashed on the ground in every direction. Isabelle laughed and wrung out her hair before following Vanora inside.

Tristan went after her and stepped into the Tavern, where he stopped in his tracks.

He'd lost.

Isabelle had seated herself astride on a bench next to Gawain, who gingerly touched a forming bruise on her jaw, inquiring half-angry what happened to her.

She grinned and shook her wet hair from her eyes. "It was a good fight."

Gawain tilted her head tenderly to the side and commented, "It was a good punch."

Isabelle snorted. "It should be. It was Tristan's."

Tristan tensed when his name left her lips. Gawain's eyes left Isabelle's face and moved to his, while he still stood in the entrance. He nodded at the younger knight and walked to an empty table across the room with a hint of a limp, planting himself slowly on a bench.

"It looks like you delivered a good punch as well," he heard Gawain say, his voice barely disguising his amusement.

"Aye," Isabelle agreed proudly, "as I said, it was a good fight."

Tristan couldn't help but stare at her as she let Gawain caress her face, but his gaze did not seem to bother her, not anymore. It felt as if she'd slipped away from him and he clenched and unclenched his hands helplessly in response.

He blinked when he suddenly found a rotund belly in front of him and looked up to Vanora's face. "Don't," she said.

He bristled. "What?"

"You know what I mean," she pressed.

Tristan leaned back, with his elbows on the table behind him. "Why don't you explain it?" he hissed.

Vanora put her hands on her hips. "Don't think you can intimidate me, Tristan!" she hissed back. "I see the way you look at her. Don't."

"Don't meddle in things you know nothing of," he growled at her.

"Know nothing of?" she repeated incredulously. "I know more of Isabelle's feelings than you do. Than you deserve to know," she added. "You've done this to other women. A barmaid, a laundress, even merchant's daughters, but Isabelle? That was different. You gained her trust when she was ill and vulnerable from fever. I don't pretend to know your motives, but you misused and exploited her faith in you."

To be scolded by Bors's lover was more than he could bear right now. "It was not exploitation!" he snarled. It was self-protection. But he could not say that aloud.

"I don't know what it was then," Vanora replied, "but it cost you her trust."

"I am well aware of that, Vanora." More than aware of. It was flaunted right in front of him, his mistakes and their consequences. But he could not say that aloud.

"Therefore I say: don't."

"Don't what, woman?"

"Don't try to take her away from Gawain," she answered softly. She chewed on her lip, measuring him with her eyes. "You should know that she was torn between you and him before you had lain together. I told her that when the time came she would know what to do. But you made that choice for her, Tristan. Now, I have no idea what she would've done if you hadn't decided for her, but with what you did you lost her trust and you pushed her straight into Gawain's arms."

"Don't you think I know that?" Tristan spat out, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees.

"Then leave her there," Vanora gently said. "She's happy there. Step back."

Briefly she placed her hand on his shoulder, squeezing it, before she left him.

Isabelle was quite busy. Her employer, Berwyn, had left three days ago to go to Eboracum and this was the first time she was alone in his shop. Silently she prayed that she would not stuff up.

Berwyn sold a myriad of things. Whatever he came across on his journeys and thought would sell well in the fort he would bring back with him.

So far she had sold four needles, five reels of yarn, a large wooden ladle, a few candles, two simple metal clasps with which to fasten a cloak, and a small engraved box made of yew.

She was rather proud of that last sell, because she had sold it for a price that was much higher than Berwyn had estimated. She hoped he would be pleased.

Oona came to visit her in the shop. She had taken the job as a laundress and had agreed to help Vanora in the tavern two nights a week. She told Isabelle that Dilys worked with Celia as a chambermaid.

"Come tonight," Oona begged. "To the Tavern. See me work."

"Fine, I will come to see you fight off all those eager men."

"Vanora says I must hit the knights. She says they listen to force only."

"Vanora should know," Isabelle chuckled.

A loud clearing of the throat made the two women look at the entrance. Galahad and Gawain stood side by side. "We wish to purchase an item," Galahad announced pompously.

"Oh, I will go," Oona said. "Tonight?" she asked Isabelle.

"Aye, I'll come tonight."

Oona smiled and inclined her head to the two knights when she hurried past them.

"Oona!" Galahad called after her. She turned around. "Will you be working tonight?"

She nodded, a faint blush creeping over her cheeks and down into her neckline when the handsome knight smiled dashingly at her.

Galahad nodded back. "Well, I'll see you tonight then. Be sure to stop by our table."

"I will," Oona answered.

When she had exited, Galahad turned back to find two raised eyebrows waiting for him, a blond one and a brown one. "What?" he asked innocently.

"Are you flirting with her?" Isabelle inquired, folding her arms and leaning her backside against the table behind her.

Galahad flashed her a charming grin. "Aren't you a tad young to be acting as my mother?"

"Fine," Gawain intervened. "Are you flirting with her?"

"You're only three years older than I am," Galahad pointed out to his friend. "Not exactly the right age to be my mother as well."

Gawain looked insulted.

"What happened to Rhian, the baker's daughter?" Isabelle demanded.

Galahad scowled. "She wanted to marry."

"You can't marry," his friend stated.

"My point exactly. But you try telling her that!" Galahad exclaimed. "She says I have taken her dignity as well as her virginity."

"Is she with child?" Gawain asked out of nowhere.

Galahad's face managed to go from pale to bright red to pale again in a heartbeat. "What?" he wheezed.

"It's just that Vanora always has her moments when she's carrying a child," Gawain clarified. "Wanting to marry."

"A child?" Galahad sputtered. "Surely not. Don't women have – Don't you have ways to avoid that…predicament?" he asked, turning to Isabelle.

"Of course," she answered, snorting disapprovingly at his choice of words, "but I don't know if she's taken precautions. You've never asked?"

Galahad shook his head, looking increasingly distressed.

"You don't want a child?" she continued.

"No! Well, I do, but not now and not – not…"

"Not with someone who is only a temporary distraction," she finished his sentence. "You should've thought of that before you took her dignity and virginity."

"Oh gods," the youngest knight groaned. "What do I do now?"

Gawain snorted. "You stop being a whining, dramatic ass, that's what you do. Go to that girl and find out if she truly is with child. If not, you explain yourself to her and finish it properly. And then you may flirt with Oona," he barked.

Galahad flared up. "Don't tell me what to do!"

"Now," Gawain threatened.

Galahad mumbled a few very impolite things in Sarmatian and stormed off. Gawain watched him go, but had the grace not to start chuckling until his friend was out of earshot. He looked at Isabelle, opening his mouth to make a comment, but snapped it shut at the sight of her expression.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing," she replied with a false smile.

"Tell me."

"Oh, now you start demanding answers," she huffed.

"Isabelle…"

"Fine," she snapped and glared at him, but it was not anger he saw in her eyes, but doubt and insecurity. "Will you finish it properly with me when I am no longer a pleasant distraction?"

Gawain looked as if one of his axes had fallen on his head. "What?"

"Don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about! I know how many women you've had. The barmaids talk and I was one of them for a while. And you – you certainly seem to know well how to untie yourself from a woman."

The knight in front of her didn't know what hit him. "Where is this coming from?" he demanded bewildered. "All because I told Galahad to handle his affairs? Would you rather have that girl find out from someone else he's no longer interested?"

"No," she admitted reluctantly. "But that's not my point. I meant – "

"Your point was me," he interrupted her, placing a hand on each side of her on the table she was leaning against and fixing her with a dark blue gaze. "Aye, I've had many women and I've always loved the feel of one next to me, I won't deny that. I haven't turned down many offers from a pretty face, but that's all they were. A pretty face, a warm body to hold on to. Something other than your weapons or the dead body of yet another one of your friends."

"I –"

"Comfort, Isabelle," he continued roughly. "That's what they offered. And you know very well that you are not about comfort."

"Do I?" she asked timidly, her eyes cast down. The intensity of his proximity was overwhelming. "I've never – feelings – before – strange to me – don't know – care and want and worry…" She studied her toes, her scrambled confession leaving her to feel extremely vulnerable, especially because his nose was only two inches away from her own.

Gawain searched for her eyes with his own. Reluctantly she looked up. "I'm rather new to this too," he said, "but I can tell the difference. Can't you?"

Isabelle shrugged. "When you said to Galahad – I just thought – it hit me that –"

He chuckled softly. "You amaze me every time I see you, showing me sides of you I've never seen before. Bashful? Very intriguing."

"Stop that," she admonished him half-heartedly.

Gawain's hands left the table, sliding up her hips. His eyes turned flirtatious. "On one condition," he cajoled.

"Which is?" she asked, gaze fixed firmly on his mouth and the corner of which was now slowly curling up.

"Guess," he answered and closed the remaining distance to her lips.

The following days were drowned in rain. Arthur and the knights had left again, on a patrol this time. When Berwyn returned from Eboracum he was in a very good mood. Thanks to Isabelle's sell of the yew box and the several rolls of cloth he had brought for the seamstress he'd made a generous profit. After paying Isabelle, he'd given her a few days off.

Without the companionship of the knights she had little to do, save for bothering Oona while she was doing laundry and bothering Kay in his smithy, though neither of them seemed to mind.

She had seen little of Claire as her chores took up most of her time. Neither did she see Andrivete, who seemed to have locked herself in her rooms to avoid her former lover.

After a week of rain, thunder, and meagre bright periods combined with utter boredom Isabelle felt ready to kill someone just to liven things up. Vanora chuckled when the younger woman visited her in the Tavern. "It's hard to wait for news, isn't it?" she remarked knowingly.

"It's torture," Isabelle agreed. "And Berwyn can manage his shop perfectly on his own when he's here. All I have to do is polish and clean his goods, naming the price he wants for them. I have the whole afternoon to myself."

"Worrying over a certain knight?"

"Wondering if a Woad has stuck his blade between his ribs, aye," Isabelle nodded. "How do you do it, Vanora? And for so long."

"There is nothing you can do but wait," Vanora answered. "And worry. Pray that he comes back to you." She lifted the toddler on her hip, number Ten. "When he's returned, you close your eyes when you see new cuts and bruises, wishing them away, hoping that the things he's lived through this time won't have him thrashing in his bed to escape the nightmares."

Isabelle was silent.

Vanora smiled grimly. "It's not only the soldiers who lead a hard life. Here, hold this wee troublemaker." She handed Ten to Isabelle. "Keep him occupied for a moment."

Ten gave Isabelle a gooey smile and grabbed a handful of hair with chubby little fingers, studying it with big eyes, while his mother set to washing tankards and mugs.

She looked up over Isabelle's shoulder and nodded for Isabelle to turn around. Andrivete stood in the courtyard. "I know Kay disagrees loudly with me," she said, "but Andrivete's reasons for leaving with Julius Septimus are not without sense."

They looked at the tall woman, who suddenly and noticeably stiffened when the even taller blacksmith meandered across the courtyard, avoiding large puddles of rain. Kay nodded curtly and walked past her.

Andrivete spun around and called after him, making him turn and walk back to her, his mouth tightening into a thin line.

"Oh no," Vanora sighed. "There they go again."

Their noses barely three inches apart, Kay and Andrivete spoke heatedly to each other, making snappy gestures with their hands, completely unaware of the fact that they were being watched.

"She hurt him, didn't she?" Isabelle mumbled.

"Aye," Vanora concurred, "though he'll never admit it." She shook her head. "They never admit to anything, not one of them. Bottle it all up inside, until they explode and fight someone or kill something. Men!" She threw another tankard in her washing water.

Kay now seemed to have shut Andrivete up and stalked away, cursing loudly when water splashed into his boots when he stamped into a puddle.

Andrivete idly smoothened her gown and cloak, taking in her surroundings. When she spotted the two women she straightened her shoulders. Isabelle thought she would walk away, but instead she headed towards the Tavern. "Vanora," she smiled. "I haven't even spoken to you yet. I'm deeply ashamed."

"You've had a lot on your mind," Vanora answered.

"You could say that." Andrivete glanced at the tot in Isabelle's arms. "Yours?"

"No, mine," Vanora answered.

"And Bors's?"

"Aye."

"You haven't left him for Lancelot then? I recall him boasting about it."

Vanora laughed. "He still boasts."

"That man of yours is easy to rile," Andrivete nodded. "And Lancelot always had an unhealthy need for getting under people's skin."

Isabelle snorted loudly. "That he has."

Andrivete raised a copper-coloured eyebrow. Her eyes, which were of a greyish green colour, glided over Isabelle's face. Their slanted shape and the high cheekbones under them gave her the appearance of a cat. "You're a friend of Arthur's family, aren't you?"

"Aye, I am." The lie slid off her tongue easily.

"Yes, Celia told me," Andrivete drawled. "And you're a…friend of Kay's?"

Isabelle's own brown eyebrow quirked to match the expression of the older woman. There'd been more than a slight hint of possessiveness in her voice. "Aye, Kay and I get along well," Isabelle answered. "Very well."

"A bit young, aren't you?"

"Oh, stop that, you two!" Vanora exclaimed exasperatedly. "Isabelle is not sharing Kay's bed and if you still want him, Andrivete, which I can tell from the fire shooting out of your eyes, go and claim him! Isabelle has had her share of Sarmatian men already!"

"Vanora!" Isabelle gasped.

The Thracian woman too looked shocked. "I'd forgotten how candidly folk spoke around here."

"You best remember it soon," Vanora advised, pointing a tankard dripping with water in her direction. "Kay is not a Roman full of fancy manners and polished words."

A longing smile appeared on Andrivete's face. "That I remember."

Isabelle couldn't help herself. "Why did you leave him?"

Andrivete blinked. Clearly she hadn't expected such a question. "Why? I'm not sure – no, I suppose it's my turn to be candid now. I was afraid. In one hand I had Julius and the safe, protected life he offered me, free of worry, free of toil. In the other hand there was Kay, who still had five years of service ahead of him. Five years of this place, five years of blood, war, death… Five years in which I could lose him to the sword of a Briton. And then what? I had no skills with which I could make a living if something should happen to him. He could not marry me, I would not have the protection of his name as his widow."

Vanora nodded. "It's a risk."

"I didn't always think of it that way," Andrivete continued, almost defensively. "In the beginning, when we'd just become lovers, I was making plans to stay here."

"What happened?" Isabelle asked.

"Kay was wounded," she answered. "That scar on his face, he was nearly killed that time. The healer only barely managed to save his eye, but that was not his most serious injury. A Woad had driven a sword into his side. We had all given him up, but somehow the blade must have missed his organs, because he recovered. I think that was the only time Julius became suspicious, because I could not bring myself to leave Kay's bed. And from that moment on I was afraid."

"So you chose Julius Septimus and left."

"Yes, I left him," Andrivete said. "It's rather funny, actually," she added with a melancholy grin. "Unlike Julius and Gervasius – my late husband – he was the only one I couldn't wrap around my little finger. The only one who refused to be manipulated. Hard-headed, stubborn man. Oh, how I wanted him for my own." She snorted. "And oh, how I fooled myself into thinking I was seducing him, but it was always on his terms. It annoyed me to no end and yet I couldn't stay away. I couldn't maintain the role of a sophisticated Roman woman when I was with him. He would not allow it. Maybe that scared me as well," she admitted. She paused and added, "I never expected to see him again."

"He said the exact same thing," Isabelle told her.

"Second chances don't come around that often," Vanora stated.

Andrivete shook her head. "Doesn't matter. Ten years stand between us now. I don't know what I was thinking, coming here."

"Ten years is not a lifetime," Vanora replied shrewdly.

"Must you insist on playing matchmaker?" the older woman cried out.

"She must," Isabelle answered dryly. "You'd better do as she says."

Andrivete turned her head, staring outside. "What's the use? He'll never forgive me."