Hey Koba, still planning the Italy trip? Everything all right for you overseas?
So, I was planning this chapter to be lovely and fluffy and it didn't quite go according to plan. Too bad, I had to adapt. Is it quite my fault that Tristan can be so incredibly annoying?
I don't know when the next chapter will be posted, I have a thousand things on the stove and not so much time at the moment with children at home. Good news (for me) is that my first novel might be published soon. Bad news is that it is in french, and might take up a lot of my spare time.
The door banged, revealing an out of breath, blood splattered Gawain. Jumping in fright, Frances stabbed her finger with her needle with a curse she could only have heard from a Sarmatian knight. As her lips suckled the injured appendage, she took in the dreadful state of their intruder with wide, fearful, eyes. Frozen on the spot, she was grateful for the seamstress's quick reaction.
— "Good God, son, what happened to you?" asked the plump woman.
Gawain's breath came short as he nodded to the woman, hands braced on his thighs from the exertion; the seamstress' house was a good deal away from the fort.
— "Ambush… Tristan is badly wounded… Dagonet sent me."
At once, Frances stood, sending the shirt she had been mending to the floor. Her throat constricted painfully, and she turned to the seamstress with a plea.
— "Go to your betrothed, girl."
Her lovely face contorted in fear, she reached for her mistress' hand and squeezed fondly.
— "Thank you"
— "And take your cloak!"
Right. Snatching the heavy cape, Frances followed the knight out of the seamstress' little house. Her hands were trembling, probably from the cold winter day. Eight months since Tristan had rescued her from the bandits, eight months spent working as a seamstress where her only social life happened whenever he took her to the tavern or met her at the market. Tristan had become part of her landscape. The seamstress replacing her mother figure, and he … her betrothed. He didn't talk much, the taciturn scout, but they understood each other. Under the disguise of this ploy, they had come to some kind of understanding. Since they sought to spread rumours rather than avoid it, they could spend much time together without fear. The world upside down, especially for a woman who had been raised to keep her reputation intact until marriage. Yet, it wasn't unpleasant.
Tristan had introduced her to Hawk, his fearsome bird, at the top of the wall. They sometimes wandered, in and out of the fort, to keep people talking. Frances cherished those moments where her life was more than stitching and nature spread its wonders; with her protector by her side, she could enjoy the outdoors. The world he showed her was as beautiful as it was cruel, but despite his silent ways, they shared many moments of quiet discussion. She had never seen him fight, nor shoot. The only side of him she knew was the man who roamed the forest and talked to his bird. The silent witness of nature. It was peaceful, it brought her solace from the hassle of her past life.
In this blessed summer and autumn, Frances had nearly forgotten that blasted service to Rome. She knew how Vanora waited upon the wall for the knight's return whenever they left. Until now, Frances had never feared, confident that the scout would fulfil his duty and return to the fort. He was a pillar, an unshakeable figure of stability in her life. He couldn't be gone. What if …? She feared for Tristan, hoping he would be able to pull through without damage. As her heart constricted painfully, she realised that she shouldn't have cared that much. It was, after all, just a ploy? At least her reaction was realistic enough that no one would ever dare questioning her attachment.
By her side, Gawain walked uneasily, as if he struggled to follow her. Frances cursed herself, forcing her steps to slow down for the limping knight.
— "How badly are you injured, sir?"
— "I'm good enough, just got nicked in the leg. It doesn't need any stitches"
Accepting his words – albeit she suspected him to downplay his wound – Frances asked what happened. A veil suddenly seemed to settle upon his gentle features, anger and sadness reflected in his blue eyes. She seldom got to see it; the warrior beneath the man.
— "The woads were waiting for us, blast them! They got Percival before Tristan fired his first arrow."
Her steps faltered; her face suddenly pale.
— "What do you mean, they got him? He's going to pull through, right?"
Standing still, Gawain didn't even try to disguise the immensity of his grief. And despite the dryness of his eyes, the solemn look her directed at her told her the plain, ugly truth.
— "Percival is dead."
Frances gasped, bringing her hand before her mouth while tears pooled into her eyes. Percival, the gentle redhead who knew more poetry than even her former tutor? The man who sometimes talked to her gently without an ounce of flirting, treating her like a lady? Her fingers trembled, touching her lips incredulously as she, at last, understood what it meant to be a knight of the round table. How many had died already? Their numbers dwindled every day. Every single day. And she prayed that hers might be spared.
— "What of Tristan?"
Gawain resumed his walk.
— "A deep gash to the inner thigh."
A sharp breath filled her lungs; everyone knew that if the artery was split, there would be no tomorrow. But Gawain kept providing more details.
— "There was so much blood that we thought … we had lost him too. But he's stubborn, and still breathing. Hopefully he will make it. We thought … that maybe his lady could be persuasive"
Frances nodded, a derisive smile lifting the corner of her lips. For once hating that they had been lying to Tristan's brothers in arms. She was no lady of his, but she knew, clear as day, that no one else would be by his side while he recovered. She would play the part, and bestow her attention to return the favour of his protection. And pray for his wound to behave, and his body to remain clear of infection. Pray the lord, or any of his Gods.
Despite everyone's hopes, infection had settled, leaving Tristan unconscious as he fought the fever. In his delirium, the knight remained silent, hazy dreams coming and going with the waves of infernal heat that washed over his broken frame, followed by the icy clutches of death. Little hands he so seldom touched wiped his brow, a gentle voice humming songs he'd never heard; a solace in between the agony of bandage changing and wound drainage. In moments of consciousness, Tristan deplored that the gash was so deep; his thigh would never be the same even if the muscle mended on its own. Crippled! If he couldn't fight like the devil he was, then he would be buried soon enough.
His sleep was restless, every single muscle aching after fighting off this strong fever. But death had lost, once more, to the fierce scout. Tristan idly wondered when would come the day for him to surrender to the ripper. For the moment, though, a set of quiet voices lulled his wandering – and inconsistent – thoughts. A deep, rumbling sound that barely registered as words reverberated in his bones. Dagonet. The other one was nearly hushed, soft sounds covered by the crackling of the fire in the healing room.
Then there was a quiet rustle and retreating footsteps, followed by the shuffling of fabric close to his head. Silence anew, with nothing more than the amber's noise to fill the room. But the scout could feel her presence by his side, even though her breathing wasn't discernable. She was a quiet woman, yet her smell was unique. Eventually, Tristan's eyes opened to a low-lit room.
— "Why are you here?" he asked to the woman by his side.
His throat was parched, his question coming out like a growl. Locking eyes with him, the seamstress's apprentice searched his face, probably nonplussed by his abrupt remark.
— "Your brothers fetched me since I am your lady," she responded sternly.
— "It is just a ploy."
The young woman winced at the bitterness of his voice, levelling him with a hash look. For a moment, he thought she would throw the piece of cloth she had been working on into his face, and he was grateful that his vision slightly swam. It somehow abated the anger in her eyes. Then she abruptly disappeared from his field of vision, her long braid like a trail of fire down her back. The noise or rushing water being poured caused his body to lurch in delight; he had sweated all his liquid in the last few days and was as dry like a dead tree. The goblet was deposited carefully by the bedside; her elegant fingers leaving it as they reached for his back. Tristan braced himself, tensing his muscles to lift his sore neck as she presented the goblet.
The cool water washed over him like a river in the heat of summer but the sensation that threw him of the most was the gentle touch upon his nape. Her warm fingers supported him, curling with a firm, enveloping grip to help his aching body. Truth be told, Tristan wasn't used to being handled with such care. The last time someone had touched his nape ever so tenderly … his mother, probably, before he grew into a man. And the scarce wenches he took to his bed now – asking for the utmost secrecy under threat of a good beating – didn't even dare laying a finger upon him. Most of the time he led the dance, and whenever they did, there was nothing delicate in their lustful touch. It didn't help much when their faces morphed into the seamstress' apprentice.
— "More?"
Her voice almost startled him; he seemed to have dozed off for a moment. Or not, for her warmth still seeped through the base of his skull. Tristan grunted his assent and the sudden contact left, leaving him strangely bereft as she went to fetch another goblet of clear ice water. Once his thirst was quenched, the young woman resumed her post by his bedside, retrieving the piece of cloth she had been working on previously. Silence settled between them once more, a companionable silence only disturbed by the shuffled of fabric and the slight, stinging noise of her needle as it flew in her nimble fingers.
— "What are you doing?" a gruff voice asked.
The young woman's eyebrow lifted, her deep chocolate eyes sending him a thoughtful gaze. She didn't have to tell him how she had interrogated half the fort to lay hands upon Iazyges traditional patterns, or reworked them with the shape of Hawk's feathers.
— "Embroidering the collar of your new shirt"
Tristan frowned and she knew what was coming.
— "I didn't order a new shirt."
— "I know"
Her voice was sharp, her response brooking no arguments, closing the discussion effectively. Would he be stupid enough to refuse the gift? There was such a self-destructive streak in Tristan that it wouldn't surprise her the least.
— "You owe me nothing," he eventually said.
This time, Frances huffed loudly, but didn't stop the needle's movement. She couldn't interrupt her braid now lest she messed up the pattern. Frustrated, she realised she shouldn't have started such a difficult part of the collar knowing Tristan could wake up. He was, after all, always catching her off guard.
— "I owe you my life. I still owe it to you every day you keep the facade."
There was barely a grunt at that, and the knight closed his eyes. Frances finished her intricate braid, then tied a knot at the back to keep it from slipping away.
— "It is merely a gift to thank you, Sir Tristan."
— "I am not asking for gratitude."
His stubbornness called a fire within her, and she struggled with the sudden urge to bash him with the pitcher. Refraining the urge to hurl something at his head – he was wounded after all – she only sent him a death glare.
— "You'll have it all the same, you insufferable man."
The ghost of a smile quirked his lips at the name calling, yet he didn't open his eyes. How he confused her, this knight! Reaching for his sleeve – she didn't dare touching his hand – she swallowed nervously before speaking in a gentler tone.
— "I didn't come because I was summoned, I came because l was worried about you."
A pair of amber eyes suddenly trapped hers, pinning her in place with the immensity of their depths. Sadness and anger reined in masters within his soul, and her breath caught.
— "You shouldn't, I am not worth it."
Was this about Percival's death? Would the scout even talk about his fallen comrade rather than walling himself in grief? Frances steeled her spine, regaining her fire.
— "It is up to me to decide who I deem worth."
His head gently rolled, the movement tightening his features – pain – before he set his intense gaze on the ceiling. For a moment, he seemed to contemplate the orange hues playing with the shadows. Frances thought he would speak no more until a whisper surprised her.
— "I want no woman out of obligation."
'But you do want a woman,' she thought. Squeezing his forearm slightly, Frances struggled for a moment. The thoughts left her frighteningly exposed, especially before the fearsome scout who could break her with harsh words. Would she dare? Or keep it to herself and remained protected behind the walls of her mind?
— "What about affection and admiration then?"
It was almost tentative, so softly spoken that the scout wondered if he had dreamt it. Surely she couldn't mean that…
— "You know nothing about me."
And this time, it wasn't an accusation. It almost sounded like gentle probing, like a question. What do you even know about me to bestow your affection? Frances reclined in her seat, her work forgotten as she roamed her memories. She could have told him about the longing look in his eyes whenever he watched his bird flying free, or the satisfied hum when sunrays hit his face and warmed his tanned skin. About the way he always seemed to prowl, even when hiding an injury, or the careful look her sported around people, betraying his lack of trust in humanity. The gentle way he handled his animals compared to the harshness that sent people scurrying away. She knew how he enjoyed silence, giving him more room for observation rather than joining in the bantering of his fellow brothers, how he loved his blades and weapons that kept him safe. How, even, when his knife sliced an apple, his body slightly relaxed from the familiar routine. That he loved them crispy and juicy, for both the sweetness and the tasteful experience of biting in the flesh.
Frances' lips drew a timid smile upon her features; the scout wasn't the only observant one.
— "I know enough," she retorted.
His jaw tightened; the now familiar sign that he was about to lash out and deal some damage. Wondering why he felt the need to push her away, Frances braced herself for the explosion. Contrary to Bors, Tristan never yelled nor smashed things when angry – she'd seen it only once but had run home rather quickly that day. No, Tristan wasn't one to make a scene, but his voice dropped to a hiss, oozing venom upon his peers and, sometimes, upon her.
— "You think so, little girl, eh? You should listen to the tales."
She didn't know why his words sent her over the edge. Usually, she would have bitten her lip and lowered her eyes to hide the sting. Perhaps it was the fear of losing him, the tension of the past days eventually uncoiling. Perhaps she was feeling bolder today. Perhaps it was the pain of him crushing her feelings when she had exposed herself. Her stool went flying backwards, surprising them both when it clattered on the tiles. Her cheeks blazed with indignation, a gleam of steel shining in her eyes.
— "If I know nothing, neither do all those peasants talking nonsense. I have no care about rumours, Sir knight!"
Surprised by the intensity of her anger – there was a woman who could match his temper when unleashed – the scout rose upon his elbows, fuelling his ire with the pain that shot through from thigh to stomach.
— "But you should, you naïve girl! I am a peasant, just like them! I am no 'Sir'."
His accent, thicker when he lost his cool, caused him to stumble on his words. Her mouth rounded into a silent 'oh', understanding dawning upon her. Short breaths caused her chest to rise faster than usual, calling his attention to the small, rounded breasts he could peek at when she sat on his lap in the tavern. By her side, her fists gradually unclenched as she cocked her head aside. Something unknown washed over her lovely features, some kind of hope, as if she had unravelled the mysteries of the world.
Tristan sneered; foolish girl! She was too young, too innocent to imagine how Sarmatian people lived. Nomads with huts, hunting at will and barely surviving the harsh winters of the steppes. In her golden Roman palace, she had been pampered in silks. She called them peasants, those people of the wall! Couldn't she see the rudeness of his manners? How he wasn't suited to anything else than scouting and killing?
Her sudden movement caused him to flinch; he wasn't used to having someone by his side when he lay, vulnerable. She picked up the stool with careful movements, setting it upright without a noise. But she didn't sit again. Bending over him with a gentle sigh, she let her graceful fingers graze his cheeks, tracing the ink of his tattoo. Tingles erupted under his skin, her touch so welcome that he barely refrained closing his eyes and leaning into the warm palm of her hand.
— "They mean the same as in the Huns' culture, right?"
Tristan froze. So she knew. She knew that his lineage was considered like royalty in the Iazyges tribe. Damn that woman! Seeing the 'deer caught in the headlights' expression upon his face hardened her gaze, and she dropped her hand.
— "Understand this, Sir Tristan. My father is an educated man. A horrible, twisted educated man that thought that teaching me would allow him to make higher bids when it came to my marriage. I have nonetheless retained much of what my preceptors said. I do not call you 'Sir' because of the whim of a wounded girl."
A pang of regret settled in his chest, its origins rather fuzzy. Yes. He was, in fact, higher in status than she could ever hope to be. Second son to a line of chefs, the equivalent of a Khan. It didn't mean much, though, for in the steppes, chefs worked just as hard as their fellow tribesmen. There was no golden tent, no silks and no privileges for their wives. A life of duress he had left behind to become Roman's pawn, and today … today he couldn't even remember which of those lives he appreciated the most. Hence the guilt that gnawed at his insides, and the feeling of betrayal when he contemplated his youth. What was he, now?
— "Now, since my presence seems to be unwelcome, I bid you a good night, and the best of recoveries."
Gathering her work in a basket, she lay in his hands a single, red apple. A token of friendship. Her eyes didn't meet his again; he didn't search her gaze for fears of seeing tears. The seamstress's apprentice was back, hidden in the layers of softness and shyness. The steel stowed away. She wasn't the kind of woman who would bear arms; she'd fight her battles another way. He shouldn't be the kind of man who would take up arms to fight her, but he had.
The door clanged when she left, leaving him alone in the darkness. The low rumbles of a familiar voice in the corridor told him she had met a fellow knight, and was conversing with him. She knew them all by now, and as surprising as it was, didn't fawn over Lancelot. But then, given her revelations this very night, she was more acute than he had given her credit for. No wonder she didn't buy Lancelot's act. Frances was a practical, intelligent woman who knew what a romance with the dark night would entail; heartbreak, loneliness, a stained reputation and maybe a child. Better to stick by his side.
Mulling over her departure, Tristan tried to make heads or tails of … them. The little seamstress was used to sitting in his lap by now; she didn't get flustered so much now. But he never kissed her again; she had been sweet and delicious under his tongue, but kissing her meant more than he was willing to give.
The short burst of cold hair – damn winter! – escorted Dagonet inside the room, the giant knight settling on the stool where his little lady had sat but a moment before.
— "What have you done, you stubborn fool?"
Tristan scowled.
— "Scared her off. She needed it."
The tall knight gave him a stern look that should have been scary had Tristan not known he could take him anytime with a sword, and that no harm would come his way until he was recovered. Over his brothers, Dagonet was the only sensible one.
— "How stupid do you intend to be?"
From any other man, this comment would have bought a dagger into one's gut. But coming from Dagonet, the comment struck closer to home than should have been possible; perhaps because the scout actually listened to his elder.
— "I am not that kind of man," he growled, bitterness seeping through his hushed tones.
The giant's quiet enquiry sent shivers down his spine.
— "What kind of man?"
Tristan mused over his answer, swirling his tongue in his mouth; he very rarely said words he regretted. There was something frightening in his future, something he'd been pushing back from the day his mare had set a hoof upon the island of Britain, persuaded that death would find him before long. At home, they would expect his return; he'd be their chieftain, and have to take a wife, raise a family. They wouldn't understand how he had changed, how different the warrior was compared to the boy who had left. Tristan didn't shy from his bloodlust; it kept him alive, and made him this incredible fighter that saved lives every day. Expect for Percival … and Kay, and so many others. Their death a remembrance to the limits of his skills, of his power. But even if he accepted it, he knew the others wouldn't. No one could, really, outside of Dagonet who never judged him. Dagonet, whose massive hand now landed on his shoulder to provide unwavering support.
— "Tristan… Once this is over, you can be anything you want."
— "No, not… A husband, a father, a lover. None of it."
And his voice was so defeated that his brother's silent chuckle threatened to bring forth his wrath. How dare he laugh at him?!
— "Bors manages. If he can, so can you."
— "Yeah, yeah"
The dismissal was brutal and swift, irony laced into a voice who could either coax a wild animal into his hands or send acidic barbs. Pissed, Dagonet slapped his shoulder with enough force to send a pang of pain through his thigh. Then the tall knight smirked, and picked the apple that lay on the scout's chest.
— "In that case, you will not be needing this."
The message was clear; the apple representing much more than a fruit. Faster than a snake, Tristan retrieved it from his brother's hands.
— "S'Mine," he growled.
Dagonet left the healing room with a laugh, hoping that his subtle hint would shake some sense into the depressed scout.
Ten days later, Tristan found, lying upon his bed, a brand-new shirt whose collar had been patiently embroidered. Eyes widening, he recognised the intricate braids from his tribe, the Iazyges patterns somehow mingling into bird feathers to reinforce the collar that he ripped more often than not. A very personal touch to a very personal need; shirts that didn't tear off when he removed them forcefully. She would know, of course, because she mended them more often than not. The craftsmanship was remarkable, speaking of long hours of work in the candlelight. For he doubted that the seamstress would let her apprentice work on such a personal project during working hours.
The attempt caused him to slump on the bed, the piece of cloth hanging limply in his hands while he considered his next move. His little lady was trying to mend their broken bond like she mended his torn shirts. And the result, well… The result was so beautiful that it nearly called tears to his eyes. It meant so much to him, the reminder that he was still, despite this stupid service, a Iazyges chieftain, but also something more. A tamer of wild beasts, a scout, a warrior. A man she trusted and cared for until he lashed at her in the despair of his loss over a comrade … or in fear of her expectations.
How could someone pass on such an intense message with needlework?
She was an intelligent, refined and cultured woman with the strength to make a new life for herself despite being torn out of her home in difficult circumstances. Sewing and embroidery were the symbols of integrating her old skills into her current life. Maybe they were not so different after all.
Perhaps … he should make an effort.
After a trip to the bath house, Tristan adorned his new shirt, tightened his braids to keep loose strands from his face and limped down to the seamstress' house. Frances received him with a smile that didn't reach her eyes, wariness clearly writ upon her fair features. And for once, Tristan paused, realising how beautiful his lady was.
