Stokely: Thank you so much for reviewing and for liking my story. I'm sorry I didn't update for so long but I wasn't quite sure where I wanted to go with this and I did another chapter that I decided I didn't want to do and then I did another one. So, here it is and I hope you like it.
Shevaun: Glad you like it. It's sometimes a little uncomfortable to write because of the first person narrative and because of that also more difficult to indicate what the other characters are feeling, because you're seeing them through the writer's eyes. But it's been fun and I'm glad you're enjoying it.
dellis: Yeah, we all like seeing our knights be chivalrous, that's when they're at their best.Though I'm not certain how true to life that would have been I would rather think they'd care even about a lowly whore.
Cardeia: I love your reviews, and I'm so glad you liked this chapter. I think that it often happens that we take people for granted and then when something happens or nearly happens it sort of wakes us up. I think the character got into the habit of taking the knights for granted, forgetting that their little courtesies and niceties were actually a rarity for someone of her status. And then the knights sort of took her for granted, thinking that she'd always be there and she'd always be able to handle herself and be okay. And that whole thing sort of shook her up and made her realize that she didn't have it that bad; that it could always be worse. And it told her that they care. Sometimes life is just a matter of seeing that while you may not have it great, it could always be worse, and being satisfied with that. And that's pretty much all this character is going to have. My thought regarding Tristan is that he is not capable of great emotion, or at least of expressing it through anything other than action. I think many men are like that, but not necessarily as emotionally stunted as the scout is. He may be in love with her, he may just be fond of her. Maybe she's just something to focus his attention on while he's hanging out at the fortress waiting for another battle. At any rate it wouldn't matter because nothing would ever come of it anyway - it's not even a possibility.
Rating: M - nothing to be scared of in this chapter.
After the incident with the soldiers, I became more aware of Tristan. I would take note of where he was in the room, or if he wasn't there at all. When the knights came back from a mission, he was the one I would look for first. I would make a point to serve him his wine, and try to engage in friendly conversation in hopes that he would be interested, but he never seemed to be. However, friendly conversation was as far as I was willing to take it, lest I risk another rebuff.
A few days after the incident, I had gone up to Tristan as he sat in the tavern. My stomach was in knots, which was odd in itself – he was just another man, after all. When he looked up at me I nearly forgot what I was there to say and I believe I made a right fool of myself.
"You came to me for something the other evening," I said. "I was wondering if you were still interested."
Tristan looked at me with his usual inscrutable expression. I always hated that about him, not knowing what he was thinking unless he wanted you to.
"I have little coin," said Tristan.
"You can pay me later if you'd like," I said. I really didn't care if he had money or not – but I did not want him to think this was personal interest, merely a business transaction.
If possible, his expression became even more veiled. "I don't take something that I can't pay for," he said firmly.
I took my leave of him as gracefully as I could, telling myself that it was not a rejection. He'd been so kind and so caring that night and I didn't understand why he was so changed now. Maybe he thought I had approached him out of gratitude. If I had, would that have been such a bad thing?
I continued to make an effort to be in his vicinity when the knights would return from being gone. He would speak cordially to me, thank me for bringing him his wine, but there was very little sign of interest on his part. I would watch as he left with other women and it made me feel inadequate.
Then came one day in particular when the knights returned, all safe and sound, and I again breathed a sigh of relief. However, when they came to the tavern, Tristan was not among them. I waited for a time, thinking he was perhaps caring for his horse or had some other duties he needed to attend to. But he did not appear and upon asking casually, none of the other knights seemed to know of any reason for him not to be there, for he was not injured. It seemed he was sometimes in the habit of remaining in his room and they were unconcerned.
I must have gone back and forth in my mind a dozen times deciding what to do. Finally I stopped thinking and walked to his quarters.
I stood hesitantly in front of the door, hand poised to knock. I turned to walk away, and then before I could stop myself I turned quickly back and knocked on the door. There was no answer, and having already committed myself to it, I knocked again. I was about to turn away and leave when I heard a voice from inside the room. Slowly I opened the door and looked in.
Tristan was there alone and slouched in a chair. Unlike the other knights who had cleaned up and changed upon their arrival, he was still fully dressed and filthy from battle and a hard ride.
"Tristan?" I asked hesitantly. "Are you all right?"
He did not speak, and though I was concerned, I realized that if he wished for company he would not have sought out the solitude of his room. "I'm sorry to intrude," I said. I began to leave and close the door, but then I heard him.
"Stay," he said.
I came back into the room, but was not sure what to do. He did not seem to be in the mood for conversation; indeed he was so quiet that he seemed to have retreated into himself. He seemed weary to the bone, so tired in fact that it was more than he could do to stir himself.
I remembered how he had been with me the night he'd cared for me, how reassuring his nearness had been. Though I had not been unduly distressed or injured, his presence had been comforting. I saw no reason why I could not be a comforting presence for him.
"You're a mess," I said softly. "Let's get you cleaned up."
I fetched a washbasin and a cloth and began with his face, cleaning the blood and the dirt and the dust from the road away. I tried to see him as if he was a small child and I was his caretaker, wiping away the grime. But my eyes were drawn to his cheekbones, with their distinctive tattoos, and his lips, full and sensual. I longed to trace them with my fingertips.
Mentally I chided myself. I needed to pull myself together, for he needed someone to care for him now, not seduce him. I concentrated on his neck and behind his ears, before returning the cloth to the basin.
"Alright, let's get that tunic off," I said in what I hoped was a businesslike fashion. With his assistance, I pulled it off him and threw it into the corner. I would take it to the laundry later.
I began to wipe down his chest, his arms, and his back. I tried not to notice the mat of fur that covered his chest, tapering down to a thin trail that disappeared into his trousers, tried to ignore the lean musculature of his abdomen. Now was not the time to be salaciously gazing over his body. And it wasn't as if I was unfamiliar with the male form. He was a fine figure of a man, to be sure, but I'd known many such.
I helped him strip away the rest of his clothing and as I continued to wash his body I reflected that I should have called for a bath. A tub would have been much more efficient, though it would have taken longer to prepare. I tried to wash him as impersonally as possible, to clean him without stroking or caressing, but still remain gentle. I dried him off and bade him sit on his bed, while I washed his legs and feet.
My task done, I picked up the basin to empty it one last time, groaning as I stood up. My back ached from my exertions. Finding a likely looking blanket, I wrapped it around him to keep him from catching a chill.
"I'm going to get these clothes to the laundry and stop by the kitchens," I said. "You must be famished."
As I turned to leave his hand snaked out and grasped my wrist tightly. "I'll be back soon," I said gently.
His hand did not loosen its grip, and I stood before him unsure what to do.
"Tristan," I said softly. "What do you need? Don't you want to eat something?"
There was an almost imperceptible shake of the head. I felt such a deep sadness as I watched him, staring through me. What had he seen, what had he been through that made him go away like this? I wondered how often he came back from battle and sat in silence, alone and uncared-for?
My hand came up and stroked his hair, stroked the side of his face. With a small sigh, he pressed his cheek into my hand and closed his eyes.
Pulling him against me, I held him to my breast.
He was still for a moment and then his arms came around me, pulling me close. We stayed this way for some little while, Tristan's face buried against my softness while I tried to comfort away whatever troubles were plaguing him.
Then slowly, I could feel a change between us, a growing awareness of each other's bodies. I could feel his breathing begin to quicken; the heat of it against my breasts. His arms tightened around me, hands reaching, grasping, pulling.
He tugged at my clothing and I released him so that I could peel away what his hands did not remove. As the last of my clothes fell away he pushed me to the bed. He did not speak; there were no sounds other than the harsh rasp of his breath. Spreading my thighs, he pushed into me without ceremony and I stifled a gasp of pain, for I was unprepared for his entry.
Though his taking of me was rough and fierce, there was a feeling of need, of intensity in the way he clung to me. Fingers that dug painfully into my shoulders would leave bruises on the morrow. He held me tightly, my face buried in his chest, and there was a moment of panic when I tried to draw breath and found that I could not. I fought to turn my head so that I was once again able to breathe.
In his frenzy, there were no kisses, no caresses, no regard. With another man I might have gotten the feeling that I didn't exist at all. But with Tristan, I felt at that moment that I was the only thing in the world.
He found his release, shuddering against me. Still, he clung to me, burying his face in my neck while I stroked his back and held him tightly. We lay in silence for a long time and then finally he spoke.
"You should not come to me when I am like this," he said quietly.
"You told me to stay," I reminded him, stroking his hair.
He could not argue with that point, and fell silent again. I lay by his side until the sound of his breathing told me that he slept. Covering us both with the blankets, I curled up next to him and also fell into slumber.
The next morning I woke to find Tristan watching me.
"Good morning," I smiled.
He nodded to me. "Morning," he said. His eyes dipped from my face to my shoulders, and he raised his hand, running his fingers over the bruises he had put on me. I could see the regret on his face.
"They don't hurt," I reassured him.
"I should not have done that," he said.
"You are hardly the first to leave bruises on my body," I said, matter-of-factly. "Nor will you be the last." My fingers traced the row of half-moon cuts on his chest where my nails had dug into his skin. "I suppose I should apologize for those," I said.
His hand came up to cover mine, and pressed it against his chest for a moment. Then he abruptly let go and turned away from me.
I put my hand on his arm, and felt him shudder, shaking me off of him. "Why do you always avoid me?" I asked him softly.
There was a moment of silence before he broke it. "Have you ever considered that I find your attentions tiresome?" he asked sharply.
My breath caught in my throat and I drew back. As coldly as I could manage I said, "Then I shall remove myself."
Quietly and with as much dignity as I could, I got up from the bed and began to get dressed. I forbade myself to cry and bit my tongue with my teeth to distract myself. I headed for the door, and suddenly Tristan spoke, calling my name.
I stopped at the door, my back stiff.
"I didn't mean that."
I supposed that was meant to mollify me, and was as close as I was likely to get to an apology. I did not know why he treated me in such a fashion and I was just about beyond caring. I could not reconcile this surly and distant man with the more caring one that I glimpsed far too infrequently.
I inclined my head in acknowledgement of what he'd said, and reached to open the door.
"Wait!" he said. I turned to see what he wanted now. He reached for his purse, took out a couple of coins and held them out to me.
"It's all I have to give you," he said quietly.
I raised my own hand and he dropped the coins into my palm. "I suppose it is," I said sadly.
Though I still noticed when Tristan was around, I stopped approaching him. There were simpler and more joyous men in my life, I did not need a moody and complicated one. All the same, I would gaze at the bruises between my thighs and on my shoulders and remember how he had put them there. I felt a strange sense of loss when they finally disappeared.
I would see him sometimes, sitting alone and observing the goings-on in the tavern. I recalled how we sat together in silent companionship, how comfortable it had been. I wanted to do so again, but self-preservation dictated that I keep my distance.
A couple of weeks went by and I woke one night to someone knocking on my door. Half asleep, I answered to find Tristan standing before me. He was unsteady, and the smell of wine emanated from him.
Though my heart thrilled to the sight of him my instincts told me to send him away. There were plenty of other women he could find comfort with, after all. "It's late," I started to say, but he moved forward and kissed me before I could finish.
That kiss completely undid me. It was the kiss of a man with something to say, and the way he looked into my eyes made me forget every reservation I had about letting him in my door. He was gentle and considerate and I felt real caring in every kiss, every brush of his fingers, every stroke of his hand. Just the memory of it makes me catch my breath.
He was gone before I woke in the morning, having left his coins on the table.
That night I saw him sitting at the table with the other knights. I came up behind him and wound my arms around his neck, stroking his chest. Into his ear I whispered, "Come to me tonight?"
"Nay, we're off early in the morning," he replied tersely.
Wondering why I'd walked into yet another rejection, or indeed that I was so surprised by it, I moved on. There were tables full of men wanting more drink and I was kept busy for the remainder of the night. I went to my bed alone and was again awakened by the sound of knocking at my door.
This time I remained in my bed, though the knocking took on an insistent quality. I did not know if it was Tristan, but I would not take the chance. Something about him wore away the shield I had tried to put around my heart and nothing good would come of continuing to see him. Finally the pounding at my door ceased and I heard the sound of footsteps walking away. I relaxed, but it was a long time before sleep found me.
The knights were gone for several weeks and upon their return my heart leaped at the sight of Tristan, back safe and sound once again. My dreams had been haunted with thoughts of him and his lovemaking, but my memory of his cold treatment afterwards was enough to dissuade me from the folly of approaching him.
When he showed interest in me I told him that my courses were upon me and that I was unavailable. It was a lie,for my courses rarely came upon me ever since I had rooted out my last child. Not that he had any way of knowing that, but the look he gave made me feel that he saw straight through my excuses.
A week later there was another late-night knock at my door. Again I resolved not to answer it, but then I heard his voice calling my name, telling me he knew I was there.
I opened the door with great reluctance. I could not run away from this forever.
"You cannot say that your courses are upon you," he said. "For I know you were with Quintus Sestius last night."
"Tristan," I began.
"Am I somehow unacceptable to you? Do I smell? Perform badly? Do I not pay you well?" he asked me calmly.
"You know none of those are true," I said.
"Then what?" he asked me.
"Do not ask me that," I said. "For I cannot tell you. All I ask is that you leave me be."
I moved to close the door, but his hand barred me. "Please," I said.
"Kiss me, and I will leave you be," Tristan said.
My heart thumped. "Just one kiss?" I asked.
"Just one," he confirmed.
I leaned forward uncertainly. I thought I was prepared, but his kiss once again swept me away, for he kissed me with not just his mouth but his entire body. I could feel the length of him against me, the strength in his lean form, and his hardness pushing against me. His arms came around me, pulling my head against his and with a groan of despair I gave in to him.
Once again, he gazed lovingly into my face and held me tenderly as if he cared when I knew on the morrow he would revert to his usual cold demeanor. But still, it was so lovely to give in to those feelings, so easy to believe in them in the heat of the moment. At long last he brought me to rapture and I cried out.
Tears ran down my face at the beauty of what we had done together, and he tenderly traced their path down my cheeks, wiping them away with his fingers. "What is this?" he asked me.
In answer I merely shook my head. No good would come of telling him of my feelings, for I believed that he himself was incapable of them. I reflected that I should feel ecstatic, floating on air, but instead I felt a sense of dread. I disliked being so out of control.
As we lay together afterwards he surprised me by speaking, something other men did as a matter of course, but Tristan only rarely. He spoke of the first time he'd seen me. I recalled the day as well, though not him specifically. It had been Gawain who had stepped forward after all, and he that I most remembered from that day.
"You looked so frightened," said Tristan. "So fragile."
I had never known I had made an impression on Tristan one way or the other.
"Had I been Gawain," he said, "I would not have given you back."
"He had no choice," I said. I was rather dumbfounded by the turn this conversation had taken.
"There is always a choice," Tristan said firmly. "And I would not have given you back."
I expected little the next morning, but was pleasantly surprised by another bout of tender lovemaking before he left me. The afterglow of that stayed with me for the remainder of the day. Surely he felt something for me. How could he touch me in that way and not feel something?
Still, I did not put my hopes in a repeat performance, so that night I found myself by Gawain's side at the table. Tristan was there along with the rest of the knights, and the drink flowed. In fact I found myself imbibing quite a bit; something I rarely did. Men did not like a woman who was sloppy drunk. But tonight I was among friends and was not seeking coin. I remained upon Gawain's lap for the best part of the evening, and his good humor was infectious. The wine that I had downed was making me feel very affectionate.
"I love you," I said to a surprised Gawain, gazing affectionately into his face. I reached up and gave him a kiss.
From the next chair over I could hear Galahad snicker. My lip curled as I regarded him. "Nay, not like that, you dolt!"
I surveyed the table, and the knights who were looking at me with varying degrees of amusement on their faces. "I love all of you," I said expansively, raising my cup of wine. "You're the best men I know!"
Galahad was still chuckling and I looked at him. "Except for you. You annoy me."
He moved closer to me. "You may not love me," he murmured into my ear, "but you love how I make you feel." His hand slid between my legs and I gasped in response. Pulling his head closer to mine, I caught him in a deep kiss.
I ended it with a groan and shoved him back towards his chair. "Very well," I conceded. "I love…certain things about you."
He smiled in triumph while the other knights hooted, save for Tristan who was not known for his sense of humor and had never hooted that I was aware.
"Speaking of love," Galahad went on, "Does anybody here want to take over Rowena from me?" Rowena was the lass who had been warming his bed most frequently of late.
"Tiring of her already, are you?" I asked, contempt dripping from my voice.
"I think it's about time she moved on, yes," he said. He looked at the other knights. "She has taken to crying in my bed."
There was a general murmur of understanding from the knights. "That is a problem," said Lancelot. "You know they're serious about you when the tears start.Time indeed to extricate yourself."
Horrified, my eyes flickered over to Tristan, whose eyes met mine before sliding away. All of a sudden the wine-induced happy mood changed to one of abject humiliation. My heart had been laid bare before Tristan, who no doubt pitied me for my pathetic display of emotion – one that could not possibly be returned in a like fashion.
"I am not feeling well," I said, as I excused myself from the table. I hurriedly left the tavern and made my way back to my room. Once inside I halfway expected to hear the knock on the door that would be Tristan. I do not know if I was more relieved or devastated that the knock never came.
The next time I served him at the table his hand covered mine, staying me from my planned swift departure. I watched his long fingers and flushed with the memory of the things they did to my body.
"Come to me later," he said.
"I cannot," I said.
"Your courses again?" he asked.
I remained silent.
"So, come to me."
I sagged in defeat. "Why me?" I asked.
He was pensive for a time and then he said, "You bring me peace."
"And you bring me anything but peace," I returned. Tears began to sting my eyes. "Do you feel anything for me?" I asked him.
"I think you know that I do," he said.
Tears began to run down my face and I resolved to just be out with it, pride be damned. "If that is true, then please go elsewhere for your pleasures. I throw my heart at your feet every time we are together and then the next day it is like it never happened."
The look on his face was sad. "I cannot be other than what I am," he said. "If I cannot give you what you want, then I am sorry for that, but do not ask me to leave you be."
"There are other women here," I said. "You can find your release with any number of them."
His hand reached for mine, fingers stroking me gently. "I do not get from them what I get from you," he said.
"Nay, for none of them are fool enough to love you!" I cried.
"Do you not know what a comfort that is to me?" Tristan whispered.
"And your comfort takes precedence over my pain," I stated sadly. "How like a man."
His hand fell away from mine, laying on the table like a dead thing. The silence that stretched between us was the first uncomfortable one that we had ever known. Finally he broke it.
"I will miss you," he said. "You brought something to me that I have not often had." He reached out and fondly stroked my head. "But I would not be the cause of your further unhappiness."
Tears ran anew down my face, and I nodded my head. Though I should have been relieved, I felt horribly selfish in my victory and strangely bereft. I grabbed his hand tightly and kissed it.
He looked at me, and I saw the sorrow in his eyes. "I gave you all I had in me to give," he said. "I am sorry it wasn't enough."
I walked away from him, back to my room and I grieved.
A woman's heart is an odd thing. It can want for something with everything it has, but upon getting it, finds that it wanted the opposite. Such was the case with Tristan. Being with him had made me feel alive as much as his disregard after had made me feel like the walking dead. I had longed to be free of the pain but in doing so had lost the thing that had given me joy.
I watched him as much as I ever had, only now I knew that there would be no knock at the door, no warm kisses full of meaning. When he was alone and seemed sad I felt guilty that I had removed myself as an avenue of comfort for him. What was I here for if not to offer comfort? But at what price to myself?
Either way I would pay a price, and unhappiness was going to be a constant in my life. The only question seemed to be, would I have some joy to go along with that unhappiness?I knew that what he had to give me was not going to be enough, but could it suffice? Wasn't a little better than living without him at all?
That evening found him at his usual table, watching the denizens of the tavern. We had not spoken and I was unsure of what my reception would be. Nonetheless, if nothing was ventured, nothing would be gained, and I fetched a pitcher of wine and took it over to him.
He watched me as I brought the wine and set it on the table in front of him. I stood for a moment and then took a seat by his side. We sat for some time in companionable silence, sharing the pitcher of wine, and watching the goings on. Finally he stood up, the chair scraping against the floor of the tavern.
I looked up at him, and he reached out to me with his hand.
"Are you coming?" he asked.
I hesitated a moment. I would not be able to change him. He would love me well tonight, but could I live with his disregard until the next time he chose to come to me? Would tonight be enough to last until then? I looked down the years to come, knowing that in time he would leave and all the love I spent on him would have been wasted. What for me then?
But all I could count on was now.
With my eyes wide open, I placed my hand in his and followed him to his room.