Phew! This is the sixth part of this story and I think I'll wrap this up afterwards. So, final part, a bit longer than usual. I couldn't leave a crime unpunished hehe … and I was in Carcassonne this week end and I just itched to write about Camelot's great hall. If you've never been there (Carcassonne), check the pictures online. It is worth a visit.
Frances tugged at her sleeve to keep her fingers busy. There! She'd found the loose thread in her hem. Damn it ! Who knew how much of the embroidery work would be wasted come the evening! And despite the fact that she was, now, a lady of leisure – ahem, a lady of the court – Frances didn't fancy having to repair this particular piece. While her mind ran across the multiple ways to fix the elaborate garland stitch, the official gathering ran its course in Camelot's Great Hall. Men from all across the kingdom had come to honour King Arthur's invitation, a call to renew vows and agreements, military and commercial alike.
Frances' eyes never left the bard, yet her mind was far, far away. She much preferred music to those singing minstrels. But it was a good way to hear about the happenings in nearby kingdoms, albeit songs always romanced things more than necessary. Still, King Arthur insisted on inviting artists from all over the kingdom to grace the Great Hall; an honour none of them would pass. A smart move; it kept the news flowing. This evening, the bard lacked talent; his voice rose and fell while he played the luth, but Frances couldn't keep her thoughts focused on the man.
Her quiet sigh earned her a concerned look. Sir Tristan, as handsome as ever, did not move an inch from his seat. Yet, his eyes met hers with a question. She addressed him a tired smile punctuated by a slight roll of her eyes. His sensual mouth quirked up; no words were needed for him to understand that she was bored out of her mind. His long fingers drifted under the massive table, sliding across her thigh in a caress that spoke of desire and longing. Heat immediately pooled in her lower abdomen, and the young woman straightened in her seat to keep her composure. Trust her husband to ignite the fire within her in the middle of the Great Hall! Who knew the scout – officially a trusted advisor to the King – could be this playful. He that seemed so aloof, so quiet, so deadly in public was relentless when it came to her. "I will never have enough of you," he had said, one day in a fit of passionate lovemaking.
Five children later, she believed him. The youngest of their boys was but eighteen months old, and she was glad for the breastfeeding that kept her from being pregnant again; she wasn't a maiden anymore. But Tristan still complimented her beauty, and from the gleam that passed though his eyes right before his attention returned to the bard, she knew he didn't lie. The admiration was returned heartily; more than thirteen years had passed since they were married, and Tristan never been more handsome. Age had brought a little bulk to his shoulders, some solace as well. So did their children. Their daughter, first, had broken his façade with such ease. The boys, next, brought forth his playfulness. And his eyes alighted with joy every time he welcomed a new addition, his hands – those of a killer – opening wide to receive the newborns into the safe haven of his arms.
Sir Tristan, today, was still a dangerous man. Trained, and deadly. As accurate with a bow than with a dagger. His quick wit only matched by his acute sense of observation. The perfect counsellor for a King that needed blunt opinions devoid of any ambition. There was no man more devoted to his King, except for his brothers; the knights of Sarmatia. But behind the role rested a soul who'd found a sense of belonging. The crow's feet around his eyes were more pronounced; laugh lines acquired with his family. The leather vest and worn out breeches had been replaced by simple, yet more elegant garments sewn by his wife. His eyes, once hidden behind wild bangs, were now exposed. Less guarded as well. The shaggy mane had been tamed and sometimes rested at his nape, tied with a leather cord.
All in all, life wasn't bad in Camelot. Ironically, the noble woman that had fled her household to escape marriage was a lady again by means of her husband. The Sarmatian knight had restored her to her rank, and even more. Tristan never cared telling his brothers that he was considered royalty; his tattoos still stood out, but no one dared asking him about it. Arthur knew, though, and had made him a collector of Sarmatian who fled the Huns. His poise alike would have assured his welcome among his people, but the tattoos spoke of his status well enough. Already, Tristan had gathered more than ten knights to populate the round table, and settled many a Sarmatian family around Camelot.
The Roman empire was falling to pieces. Both hurt by Rome, Tristan and Frances watched it crumble with satisfaction, a sly smile gracing their lips. And even if Arthur still reached for Mediterranean ambassadors, the scout and his wife stayed clear from romans. They deserved this new life devoid of shackles for which they had slaved, fought and worked to the bone.
So when the bard eventually finished his tale and the music started, Sir Tristan, fearsome knight of the round table, asked his lovely wife for a dance. She obliged with a genuine smile. As they left their seats, Tristan didn't care for the looks and gossips of the court, no more now than ever in his life before. He knew people judged him stern, and worrisome. Dangerous, barely a Sarmatian animal, with no sense of politics and diplomacy. He knew the ladies spoke behind Frances' back sometimes, wondering if he was a beast altogether, or even spoke to her, pitying her. Sometimes envying her. Tristan's mind couldn't reconcile with the looks they gave him. Women. There wasn't much to understand there, and he was glad that his wife had, at least, some sense. His match in everything but his skill with blades.
Tristan couldn't care less what the court thought of him when his life had come to this point. His children were cared for and happy, his King trusted him, so did his brothers, and he excelled at his job; to keep the kingdom safe. And so, his maroon eyes twinkled when he offered his hand to the lady Frances. HIS lady. And as they started dancing to a merry tune, he watched her twirl and turn, her smile wide whenever she caught his eyes, her happiness radiating. He was the centre of her world … a weird fact that he was slowly coming to terms with.
How beautiful she was still. Especially after bearing his children; Tristan still had trouble believing it. Frances had given him the most sacred of presents, and her figure had grown plump, especially since she was still breastfeeding the youngest ones. How he loved those new curves! Lovely and plush, a delight to kiss and caress. Her hair danced around her, a few strands already escaping the hold of her braids, the rest flowing freely. Frances had always refused the elaborates updos of the court; it reminded her of her roman origins, of her slavery in her father's house. He wasn't one to protest; she was stunning with her hair cascading down her back, strands falling over her swollen breasts.
When his hands found hers again, Tristan tightened his fingers and pulled her into his chest; a tiny squeal escaped her as she stumbled into his arms. Claiming her mouth for a short kiss, the knight prevented her from fleeing by snaking his arms around her waist. Frances rolled her eyes, then attacked his lips fiercely. They missed a turn in the dance, but the scout wasn't ready to surrender yet. Everywhere he touched her, his skin tingled with joy. Relentless, she had called him. Tristan snorted –internally. No, he was just a man in love, and filled with energy that he couldn't dissipate in fights. Of course she would take the brunt of it… But who would remain still when she disrobed, eh? 'twas her fault, after all.
Feeling another part of his body steer, Tristan smiled at his wife, a discrete quirk of his lips only addressed to her before it disappeared in his beard streaked with white. Frances eventually escaped his hold and he let her go, resuming the steps as if they had never stopped dancing. Her chocolate eyes twinkled with mirth, her lips still shiny from his tongue's swipe over them, cheeks reddened by his boldness. The scout wasn't getting any younger, but he didn't mind ageing; it meant he was still alive. Life was being more generous now, and he could only thank his Gods for the present of his wife and children.
The rhythm changed, and Tristan had to let Frances go with the flow as dancers streamed around the place, going from partner to partner. If the musicians were skilled enough, each couple would find its first companion at the end, after completing the full circle. If they weren't … he would find her nonetheless. Tristan lifted an arm; a lady passed under it, and he completed his turn. The music picked up, the flute's speed increasing, he going counterclockwise while women went the other way around. The knight kept the pace, steps following as he gracefully performed his part of the dance. Some ladies sent him flirtatious smiles, others scowled as they had to lock hands with him.
Tristan ignored them all, keeping an eye on his fiery lady as she twirled graciously around the great hall, her little feet carrying her like a fairy.
The knight completed another turn, lifting his arm anew to give way to his new partner when a sense of dread invaded his senses. At once, his hand flew to his dagger, his eyes searching his wife. It didn't take long for him to find Frances. She stood, motionless, her features frozen and pure horror in her eyes. Tristan's legs started moving before he understood the situation.
Smack!
The shock of a woman colliding against his chest barely annoyed him and he brushed her woman aside without even granting her a glance. His long strides brought him to Frances in an instant; she was facing a Roman. Beardless, short black hair and an air of regality; a blasted noble! The man stood, a smug smile upon his fine features, his dark eyes gleaming with malevolence. Beside them, the music still ran albeit the dancers were disorganised; the pattern was broken now.
Tristan stood to his full height, towering over the Roman who didn't lose his smug smile. The knight's hand snaked around Frances' waist, squeezing her side to convey his support. She was shaking; fury descended upon him like an angel of death, hot fire coursing through his veins. Whatever the man had done was dire enough! There would be hell to pay, be it Christian or Roman. Sharp canines showed as he growled.
— "What have you done to my wife?"
A scoff was his answer, and as the flute eventually died down, Tristan couldn't help but worry. Frances' silence did not bode well; the last time he'd seen her speechless was the day he had found her on the road after her assault.
— "Wife?", the roman sing-songed.
The false surprise didn't fool Tristan; the man already knew. And his dark eyes lingered upon Frances' pale face, a dirty smirk still in place. The scout barely refrained from punching the man in the face for his gall, choosing instead to lash out.
— "You would do well to show some respect."
The Roman slightly bowed, mockery still etched upon his features. The slight lines of his face, the beardless chin and the proud posture told him he was probably his age. And used to be in charge. The typical Roman he avoided at all cost. Had the man realised whom he addressed? Whom he dared mock? For despite his very fit physique, he still was a head shorter than himself, and Tristan was still Arthur's best swordsman.
Shaking with anger, the knight caught a glimpse of Gawain's tawny hair. Good. People had stopped dancing altogether, some circling them as they realised something was wrong. Damn all those curious minds who would spread gossip about his wife! Voyeurs and ill wishers alike; who knew what rumours would run this very same night?
— "Pardon me, sir knight. I only wished to warn you."
His tone was sweeter than honey, yet the roman's eyes were those of a snake. Tristan's tongue darted to his upper lip; the sign that his patience was short. Glaring, he detached the words slowly.
— "Cease your ramblings and leave…"
But the man would have none of it, and now, silence filled the great hall. Tristan internally cursed, wondering if he should throw Frances into Gawain's arms and release his cutlass. But then, the crowd parted to make way for the King. Tristan's eyes only granted him a look before returning to the sneaky Roman.
— "It is my duty, after all, to give you the sad news. To show my respect to a great knight of the round table"
Behind him, Arthur stood regally. He spared a glance with his knight, a frown marring his features. By his side, Guinevere stood still, her posture tense. But not as much as Tristan who seemed prepared to strike.
— "Of what do you speak of, Marcus?" Arthur asked with a soothing tone.
The Roman cocked his head, surprised to be facing the great King. A bow dripping with condescension greeted his question, and when Marcus lifted his head anew, he released his venom.
— "My King. I regret to impart such news, but the woman you call Lady Frances is nothing but pure. The reasons I know of it is that she slept with me before marrying your knight, then fled her father's home in shame."
— "Shut up!" Tristan almost shouted. "My wife's affairs are nothing to you."
Arthur felt the warning roll about in the room like a storm about to erupt, the thunder of Tristan's voice enough for everyone to step back. But the Roman had decided to play his cards to the end, anger and resentment dripping from his voice.
— "I am sorry, my friends, for those grave news."
And there laid the worst of mistakes as he set a compassionate hand upon Tristan's arm.
— "I understand your anger," he whispered, like a confidence.
Arthur cringed, his eyes widening. He knew what was coming and was powerless to stop it. Something flashed in Tristan's eyes as his long fingers snaked out, grabbing the wandering hand and twisting. The Roman let out a cry of pain when the knight forced him to his knees.
— "Touch me again and you die," he growled, towering over the offending man.
— "Peace!" Arthur exclaimed.
The King's plea echoed in the great hall, a desperate call to his knight. For a long time, nothing happened but the slight whimpering of Marcus, knights, guards and nobles frozen. But despite his seething anger, Tristan eventually let go and took a step back. Because the public needed to believe that the scout responded to the King, because they never knew the arguments that sometimes brewed behind closed doors. Because Arthur was his friend, first and foremost. The King sent his knight a grateful look while the roman nursed his wounded wrist and stood on wobbly legs.
— "You married a whore, barbarian," he spat.
The lady Frances blanched at the insult and Gawain rushed to Tristan's side; probably to prevent him from killing the Roman. Arthur took a sharp breath; it was going to get ugly and he wasn't sure he wanted to stop Tristan from gutting the roman. But instead of uncontrollable rage, a predatory smile lifted a corner of the scout's lips. An unsettling expression he had only seen before a battle.
— "Do you hear that, Gawain?" he drawled, his voice almost giddy.
The blond knight nodded, his jaw clenched.
— "Loud and Clear."
Tristan nodded thoughtfully, the gleam in his eyes nearly unbearable for those who knew him. Straightening, the knight spoke, his smooth voice contrasting with the purpose of his words.
— "Marcus," he said, punctuating the word with a slight bow.
The Roman's dark eyebrows lifted in a hopeful expression, but Arthur knew what was coming. Ten years at court had taught Tristan a little dramatics, and a shudder ran through his spine. Bless God he never had to battle his own scout.
— "For your insult to my wife, I challenge you to a duel. As for the accusation of rape, this fight shall be to the death. There can be no substitute."
There, the hammer had fallen. Marcus gasped, and whispers echoed among the assistance. Arthur, like many others, could only wonder what Tristan meant. The scout's body simmered with anticipation, his fingers dancing around his cutlass. Beside him, Frances' cheeks were aflame, her head lowered in shame.
Shame… How come …? Rape ! All blood left his face when Arthur understood. So many times he had wondered about the little seamstress who has stolen his scout's heart. Her noble manners, her skill with a needle, her affection for Tristan. Too often, he had gathered many things were left unsaid, the questions she never answered. But Tristan trusted the seamstress, and he trusted Tristan. Facing the ugly truth, Arthur's green eyes hardened, his jaw clenching as the roman exclaimed his disagreement.
— "Surely you jest, sir. The accusation of rape is unfounded."
The lady Frances lifted her head then, and Arthur could only stare at her tear-streaked cheeks. And albeit her voice wavered, she did not flinch as she addressed the man who had probably stolen her virginity.
— "I hereby accuse you, formally, of rape in the year 475 AD during our betrothal. My husband, Sir Tristan, is entitled to defend my honour."
Marcus blanched then; he probably wasn't expecting this. Turning to Arthur in hopes of appealing to the higher authority, his incredulous expression fell. As King, his composure didn't falter, but as a man, Arthur was appalled. Betrothed! The man had raped his betrothed before they could take the vows, forcing her to flee her own house. This could not be borne! His expression turned thunderous as he spoke:
— "So be it. Tomorrow, two bells after dawn, you shall fight and God shall be judge as per the laws of my kingdom. In the meantime, you will be escorted and guarded."
And while Marcus was led out with guards at his back, his yells about diplomacy and Sarmatians dogs echoed in the great hall. Arthur sighed, his eyes meeting those of the scout. Tomorrow, a rape would be punished by death, for he did not doubt Tristan's skills, nor his motivations. For the moment, though, the knight bestowed a gentle kiss to his wife's temple and led her away.
Watching the tall, proud Tristan display his affection to the shaken lady, Arthur hoped that she would find peace. And that his court wouldn't be too harsh with her. Guinevere's hand upon his arm focused his thoughts long enough for an idea to blossom; she would know what how to handle gossip.
Frances was sitting. Not by choice; her legs were shaking so violently that she couldn't keep upright. Madayne, her eldest child, sat by her side. Summoned by her father, the little blond lady held her mother's hand tightly. Rumours would spread fast and far. At twelve, she needed to know the truth to be able to handle gossip. Frances respected her husband for his insightfulness. He protected their children the way he saw fit, but didn't shield them from reality. Knowing what to look for was the best of protections.
Yet, she couldn't help but feel ashamed. Sir Tristan, standing tall and proud in front of her, only had to take a look at her face to know what dark thoughts raged under her skull.
— "It wasn't your fault, Frances. It will never be, and once this despicable man is dead, people will know that you were only a victim."
The shaking resumed, and Madayne circled her waist to squeeze it tight.
— "Don't cry, Mother. Father will avenge you"
But the tears kept flowing, upsetting the little lady by her side. Yet, Frances couldn't have stopped them if her life depended on it.
— "I'm sorry, my little girl" she hiccuped. "Sorry that you had to be the witness of my demise."
— "I'm not a little girl, Mum."
Tristan knelt, his deep eyes considering his daughter with pride and a hint of uneasiness. Probably wondering how he was going to handle suitors when the time came … and despite the shame, Frances could only smile at the thought. Who knew the fearsome scout would create such a strong bond with his eldest? How she loved him! Suddenly, the idea to lose him crushed her chest, and she threw herself in his arms. Squeezing tight, she cried.
— "I don't want harm to come to you. Don't fight for my life, husband."
A discrete sigh passed Tristan's lips before his callous hands cupped her cheeks. Then he plunged his gaze into hers, his intent so strong that she couldn't look away.
— "Frances, I have fought fifteen years for Rome. What good am I if I cannot fight to avenge you, and defend your honour."
But instead of feeling relieved, Frances paled, her hand trembling.
— "I fear my reputation is done now."
Gossip would stain her family now, her daughter just as much as her sons. And despite the fact that she knew what was told in her back, the little ones had, until now, been protected. People were too afraid of the scout to spread lies about his children. The feel of Tristan's lips upon her temple called her back to reality, and she lifted her eyes to find the King. His green eyes were sad, and angry when he addressed her.
— "I am sorry for what happened to you, Lady Frances. Know that you have my admiration."
Frances' eyebrows shot upwards, but she was too shaken to ask the meaning of his words. Then the King turned to Tristan, and a muscle ticked in his jaw as he faced his trusted scout.
— "Tristan? My prayers are with you."
Tristan's lips lifted in a feral sneer; the predator was unleashed.
— "Save them, I don't need it."
Unfazed by Tristan's rejection, the King only nodded. Stoic, like those leaders of old that had carved history.
— "Nonetheless I will pray for justice. Deal it swiftly."
Frances bit her lip; she had no doubt that Tristan would cut Marcus down before he could even lift his sword. Despite his apparent aloofness, the scout had never lost his reflexes. Bless him for being so skilled; even if Marcus was well trained in the arts of the gladius, he didn't stand a chance. This time, the haughty Roman had attacked the wrong person.
— "As for court, Lady Frances, my Queen knows just the right people to spread the word of your courage and dedication. Be assured that she will do what is necessary."
Arthur's words caused her head to jerk up, the meaning taking a little time to dawn upon her. Why would the King go to such length to preserve her? Granted, Tristan was like family, but she only was his wife; she had never done anything to warrant such grace. Blinking back tears, Frances bowed to her King. Beside her, she could feel Madayne bristling on the bench. The youth wasn't used to the intimidating presence of Arthur yet. If only she knew how, sometimes, Tristan rambled against his stubbornness, and called him all sort of names.
— "Thank you, sire.", Frances said.
And Arthur bowed his head to her. The King, bowing to her !
— "No, I thank you for the joy you have brought to my scout."
His words filled her with courage, for if there was anything she had never regretted in her life, it was her marriage to Tristan. Lifting her head, she dared sending Arthur a square look.
— "He deserved all of it."
The King's eyes drifted to Tristan, a gleam of fondness alighting them as the scout checked his cutlass.
— "Aye, he did."
It was then than Frances understood why the King took such good care of their family. Tristan was like a brother; his happiness meant a lot to him.
— "I'll see you tomorrow morning. Get some rest," he concluded.
Then he turned away and left, his swishing cape dancing around his boots.
Two bells after dawn.
There was quite a crowd gathered around the training area today. Usually, only children and youngsters – most of the time, the knights' brood – bothered to watch the knight's training. But today, women, families and men alike awaited the confrontation between Marcus and Tristan. The scout had not a care in the world; he'd fought in many circumstances before. And this particular one would be over faster than any of them expected. This very night, as he watched Frances sleep fitfully, her eyes red and swollen, he swore that no one would ever dare glare at his woman, let alone touch her. He would make an example of Marcus.
A few feet away, Madayne and Evhan surrounded his wife. At respectively twelve and ten years old, Tristan had allowed them to attend the duel. The rest of their sons were in safe hands at the fort with some of Bors' children. There was an age for tales of knights and dragons, and an age for reality. Beside them stood Gawain, a gleam of expectation shining in his blue eyes. Galahad flanked him, still young despite his thirty plus years. Pup one day, pup forever. Surrounded by her family and friends, he could see Frances' confidence rising. Her reddish hair shone proudly in the morning light, her features as beautiful as ever, her plain dress showing the curves he so cherished. Ready to face the man who had plagued her nightmares for so long.
Once more, the lady Frances rose from the ashes, supported by his brothers in arms. And if anything happened to him … he knew he could count on them to take care of his family. Sending one loaded look to his brothers, Tristan turned around to watch the arrival of the idiot that had dared cross his path.
Frances watched, from her spot, as Marcus made his way to the training area. The Roman didn't seem so proud now. Perhaps, yesterday, he had not listened to rumours and dismissed Tristan's reputation. The terrified gleam in his eyes, now, told her that he knew. Had the guards fed him stories to frighten him? The poor roman, even if well-built and well trained, stood no chance. The length of his gladius didn't amount half the reach of Tristan's Dao. Unless he was particularly skilled, death awaited him swiftly. No one could save him now; diplomacy had failed the moment he insulted a knight's wife. Poor Marcus, always a little hotheaded, always acting before thinking through the consequences. Thirteen years had brought Tristan some bulk and perspective, but Marcus still acted like a brat. It was too late now, and despite the guilt that stirred within her, Frances didn't want to save him. Would his death heal her heart?
Somewhere, deep within, she realised that, had Marcus not raped her on that fated day, she never would have met Tristan. She would be the sad wife of a Roman in a fallen empire rather than the proud spouse of her knight. Somehow, his action, however despicable, had led her to Hadrian's wall. To Camelot. And she wouldn't trade places for the world.
Her chocolate eyes followed Tristan as he tightened the straps of his armour. The tightened jaw betrayed his fury; the scout was calling his anger forth in anticipation. He would show no mercy.
King Arthur and Queen Guinevere stood on a stage, close by, but not close enough that Marcus could call them out of favouritism. The law was the law, and Arthur incarnated it regally. There would be no appeal, no way out.
Sword sheathed on his back, Tristan strolled leisurely in the training area. His false nonchalance didn't fool Frances, for she knew her husband's coiled muscles were ready. Yet, it had the desired effect on Marcus whose skin went even paler. Who could possibly face a duel with such calm, if not the devil himself? The roman tried once more to appeal to the King, to the laws of diplomacy, and raged about the commercial accords that would surely be forfeited with his disappearance. His cowardice disgusted her, and Frances could only congratulate herself on her rash actions that, thirteen years ago, had brought her to Tristan's feet. The rest of his ramblings went unnoticed as she caught her husband's gaze. Confidence and love poured from him, his feelings plainly exposed without his face betraying any of it. It never ceased to amaze her, how a simple look could make her knees weak. But then his eyes flickered to the side, catching Madayne's gaze, and their daughter nodded. A sly smirk quirked Tristan's lips, mirrored by a feral smile on their little lady's face. How unsettling that their daughter would be so alike her father!
Judging that both duellists were ready, the King stood. But Marcus, knowing his fate sealed, didn't wait for the signal. A collective gasp of outrage greeted his actions as the roman charged, his gladius aimed at Tristan's head. Frances' heart stopped then; her husband stood, unmoving, his sword still sheathed. For a dreadful moment, she thought he would drop, wounded to death by the same man who'd stolen her innocence.
Tristan moved so fast that she had trouble understanding what happened. One moment, he was standing proudly, ready to be butchered, and the next… Cling! The ring of metal told her he'd deviated his blade somehow – perhaps with the cutlass. His whole body twisted in the opening, his shoulder colliding with Marcus' plexus. A muted sound escaped the roman before the scout head butted him fiercely. The gladius flew away; Marcus collapsed to the ground with a grunt, holding his nose. Tristan then reached for his sword, and unsheathed the Dao with a graceful arc. The blade danced in his hand until his long fingers steadied it in a reverse grip. Tristan's whole body went down, and when he stood anew, his blade was buried into Marcus's throat, pinning the roman to the ground.
A few convulsions later, Marcus was dead, his blood pooling like a crimson river.
Frances released a breath, and once she was sure that her attacker would never stand again, stole a glance at her daughter's face. Madayne stood, transfixed, her eyes wide. It was the first time she witnessed her father in battle mode. No doubt the little lady would understand why people cowered when Tristan glared. As for Evhan, his smug smile conveyed the full extend of his pride.
When Tristan retrieved his Dao, King Arthur rose. A hush fell over the crowd.
— "God had chosen, supporting Tristan as he sook justice for his wife's trials. The lady Frances is therefore declared innocent of the false accusations laid at her feet. Let it be known that no injustice shall remain unpunished in Camelot."
A knot dissolved in Frances' chest and she watched as Tristan spat on Marcus' body, then glared at the assistance. Many eyes fled to the ground, frightened by the scout's purpose, until his gaze fell upon his family.
— "Mark my words. Whomever threatens my finally will not see the light of the new day", he said, his voice carrying across the sparring field.
Frances' heart was hammering. If Tristan's threat would unleash rumours at court, he only meant to protect his daughter. And she bowed to him, her husband, for ensuring that Madayne would never have to endure rape. As for Evhan, he threw his head back and cheered his father's name. Gawain and Galahad responded in kind, and very soon, the whole crowd applauded.
Started by this unusual reaction, Tristan strode to his wife to steal a well-deserved kiss. Madayne shied away from this disgusting display of affection – Ew, there was tongue involved! – to study her father's bloody Dao. Crimson droplets fell from the sharp blade, staining the dirt. A moment later, a set of familiar eyes caught her gaze. Clear hazel bordering on grey stared back, a question unasked within their depth.
Was she spooked by his brutality? Had he lost her love, witnessing how he'd killed a man without even breaking a sweat? And while Evhan came to clasp his father's forearm like a fellow warrior, Madayne answered in kind, her eyes conveying her admiration for the man who had defended her mother's honour with such skill. Not a word was exchanged, but the small smile her father gave her was enough to brighten Madayne's world.
— "Hey Tristan, fancy a sparring session?"
Gawain's voice broke the silent communication between father and daughter, and Tristan lifted his head to the one she called the lion knight – in regards to his wild mane of tawny hair. Galahad appeared then, his sword at the ready.
— "Yeah, you don't seem too tired. Can't let you become a rusty old man."
Tristan cocked his head aside, seemingly deep in though. Then he gestured to the training area, his voice quiet as he said:
— "Yes. Disappointing man."
And while people trailed away, either replete or pissed by the quick execution, Madayne remained by her mother's side as they dragged Marcus' body away. She wouldn't miss a sparring session for the world, intent on watching the legend that was her father, the fearsome scout. More than forty years old, a slight limp due to previous battles, and still able to disarm Gawain and Galahad who trained the new knights every day. Damn, what a man her mother had landed!
So, you might have found Frances quite subdued here. She's dealing with the trauma of rape, like too many others have before her, and it takes a long time to heal from this. Especially when facing the rapist again. She needs all the support she can get at this point.
Madainn means Aurora in gaelic, and evhan is freedom.