TRISTAN'S CHOICE
CHAPTER TWO
Tristan had never intended to go into the tavern, yet now he found himself in the brightly-lit archway being hailed by Gawain. It bemused him that some slip of a girl--a whore no less--had compelled his feet to walk in this direction. He seldom felt compelled to do anything outside of the battlefield. If the truth be told, he seldom felt much of anything anymore. Emotions had no place in the life he led.
When he entered the tavern, his eyes did not immediately seek the girl out. He would not give in to such a weakness. Instead, he walked with a slow, easy stride toward the knights, his look inscrutable, his attention seemingly focused on some distant place. Yet he was acutely aware of the effect he was having on his fellow patrons. Whether they were bone-weary farmers and tradesmen, trying to squeeze out a little enjoyment in this gods-forsaken place, or battle-hardened Roman soldiers ready for the next fight, they all gave him a wide berth. He was used to it and did not care one whit about it. In the past, he had even preyed on their fear to amuse himself—"accidentally" knocking into someone's shoulder as he passed or staring at someone a tad too long just to see that panicky, hunted look come into their eyes.
Even the women avoided him as much as possible, all except for Bors' Vanora, who treated him no differently than she did the other knights. That is to say, she had no qualms about giving him a sound tongue-lashing if she thought he deserved it. But, for the most part, on the rare occasions when he showed up at the tavern, she would care for him, see to it that his cup remained full and that he got his apple. He put up with any fussing from her with uncharacteristic good humor—because of the apple, he told himself, and left it at that.
"We didn't expect to see you here tonight, Tristan," Gawain said, his words slightly slurred, as the scout reached him.
"Got thirsty," was all Tristan replied. He took a seat at the end of the table, stretching his long legs in front of him, and nodded at the other knights.
For once, Gawain did not have a woman pressed into his lap, and that surprised Tristan. But Lancelot and Galahad did, as usual. Bors was bouncing Vanora's latest whelp on his knee. That too was to be expected. And Dagonet had both hands wrapped around his ale--he was a quiet, pensive drinker. Tristan suspected all five were well into their cups. He himself never got drunk.
Vanora must have seen him come in, for in the next moment she thrust a mug of ale into his hand and set down an apple, before swirling away again to attend other customers.
No other woman—bar wench or whore—approached him. He did not miss their attention. Sometimes, a new girl would make the mistake of testing her wiles on him. He made sure she never made that same mistake twice.
Tristan took out one of the many knives he carried.
He did not like women brazenly coming onto him. He did not like them simpering over him, muttering falsehoods…touching him. Trying to sooth him as if he were some wild animal to be tamed. He was contemptuous of the whores—not because they were whores but because of their swinish behavior in the tavern, their lack of self-control--although, he was certainly not above hiring them when the mood struck and they were not above accepting him. If it came down to it, he could buy any whore he wanted, no matter how disturbing they found his manner to be. He was not a tender, considerate lover, but he had never hurt a woman in his life—which was more than most men could say.
Tristan cut a slice from his apple and brought it to his mouth.
"Well, Gawain…are you going to buy her, or not?" Lancelot asked.
As he slowly chewed, Tristan shifted his gaze to the dark knight, who in turn was looking at Gawain and motioning with his head toward the other end of the tavern.
Tristan followed the motion until he saw her. The girl in the red dress.
"Because if you're not, I'd like to have a go at her," Lancelot continued, and Tristan's eyes darted back. The buxom blonde on Lancelot's lap slapped him on the arm and started to get up in protest, but the dark knight tightened his hold around her waist, making Tristan wonder if Lancelot was serious or merely goading Gawain.
"You can try," Gawain replied with a snort, and Tristan suspected the latter. In all likelihood Lancelot lacked the coin to buy any body this evening. There were at least three dice games being played at the moment, and Lancelot was not playing any of them—which could only mean he had nothing left to play with.
But Gawain was a different matter altogether. Tristan studied him through hooded eyes. The golden knight's attention was now firmly fixed on the new girl and a lazy, appreciative smile spread across his face. He toyed with a silver coin in one hand, twirling it around and around, but seemed to forget the mug of ale he held in the other.
Tristan's brow furrowed with the slightest of frowns. With deliberate casualness, he turned back toward the girl. She was still two tables away, but she was heading toward them, her arms laden with a heavy tray. For the first time since he saw her standing in the archway, Tristan got a good look at her. A really good look. And he understood Gawain's interest.
The new girl was lovely.
He heard someone call her "Morgan"—a Celtic name certainly; but save for her pale skin, she looked nothing like a Celt. She was small, for one thing, more like a Woad. And her hair was not fair and straight. It was thick and dark and unruly—several curls had already escaped the tightly woven braid. She had Roman hair. The girl was a mongrel, like Arthur, but undeniably a lovely one.
Hers was not the bold, ripe beauty of the other tavern wenches. Hers was a delicate, almost patrician beauty that Tristan knew would appeal to any number of men. Her manner might be shy and aloof, but she would never lack for customers. Plainly put, there were men who would prefer the feel of her small body to that of a more voluptuous whore—men who liked to maintain the illusion that they were bedding a young, untried maiden. A lady. Over time some of the men might actually come to feel protective of her. Gawain would be such a man.
Then there were those who would be drawn to her for the exact opposite reason—twisted men who liked to break beautiful, fragile things. Tristan did not doubt that she would get more than her fair share of rough usage.
Illusion or perversion. Neither of these things drew him to the girl.
Instead, Tristan was drawn to her air of aloneness.
He watched her now as she maneuvered her way gracefully through the crowded tavern. Her face was devoid of all expression; her dark eyes veiled. She never stopped to chat or flirt, never met anyone's gaze. She seemed, for all intents, to inhabit another world, far removed from the cold stone walls of Camboglanna. And yet, she must have been keenly aware of her surroundings—not once did she bump into a swaying back or brush against an errant hand, not once did she break her stride to avoid an unwanted collision. Tristan admired the cool efficiency of her movements, and a ghost of a smile appeared on his face. Little Morgan reminded him of himself.
She arrived at their table a short time later with a fresh pitcher of ale, several loaves of bread with cheese—Vanora's doing, he was sure—and another apple. This she placed before him as soon as she set down her tray, her eyes meeting his in a fleeting glance. Tristan wondered if Vanora had told her about his penchant for the fruit, or if she had noticed it herself. He was unprepared for the pleasure he felt at the thought that she might have been watching him. He was unprepared for the little spark of excitement that ignited in his gut when their eyes briefly met.
The other knights welcomed her with more courtesy than they were wont to show a whore and the wench on Galahad's lap rose to help her serve. Morgan inclined her head both in greeting and in thanks—she never seemed to waste a single gesture. When she leaned over the table to fill Bors' mug, the baby in his arms grabbed hold of her braid, and Tristan caught the small smile that briefly touched her lips. He also heard her speak for the first time, although he had to strain to do so.
"Your little one looks more like you every day," she mumbled, not quite meeting Bors' eyes, as she gently removed herself from the baby's grasp. Tristan could not place her accent, but she definitely was not a native Latin speaker.
At her words, Bors gave Lancelot a triumphant look.
"Hah! She says he looks like me!" Bors roared. And Tristan and the other knights chuckled. It was an ongoing joke between the two—Lancelot insisting that he had fathered the big knight's latest bastard and Bors threatening to hack his friend's cock off if he said it one more time.
Morgan did not react to the knights' mirth. With the help of Galahad's wench, she continued to serve the knights in silence, until she reached over to give Lancelot his plate of bread and cheese. The blonde was still in his lap, but that didn't stop Lancelot from covering Morgan's small hand with his own when she set down his plate.
The girl went utterly still and stared at his hand.
"Will you drop your asking price, pretty Morgan, and stay with me this night?" Lancelot's voice was deceptively soft, almost caressing. He ignored the stiffening blonde in his lap; his feral eyes were intent on the new girl, willing her to look at him.
Gawain's fist closed over his silver coin.
"You will not regret it, I assure you, " the dark knight said. Tristan had to admit that Lancelot had a fine, cultured voice. The kind of voice that could stoke a fire inside the most frigid of women.
Lancelot began to rub his thumb over the back of Morgan's hand. He was at his persuasive best now, so committed to his pursuit of the new girl that he did not seem to notice when the blonde wench rose and stalked away. It might have started out as a game for him, a means to taunt Gawain, but it was obvious to Tristan that Lancelot truly meant to have her.
At last, Morgan raised her eyes, and gave the dark knight a long, appraising look.
"You have no coin?" she asked him, her voice so low that Tristan could only read her lips.
Lancelot shook his head, a look of genuine regret coming to his face, then lifted her small hand to his mouth and kissed it. "No coin. But what do you say, Morgan? Will you say yes?" He turned her hand over and kissed her palm, then, her wrist.
Tristan had to forcibly stop himself from scowling, and wondered that he should even care. She was only a whore, after all…
A whore who did not seem the least bit flattered or flustered by Lancelot's attention. Tristan sat forward in his chair and watched the girl through narrowed eyes as she gracefully took back her hand.
"I say nay," was her clear reply—louder than any previous words she had spoken. She was not rude. She did not even sound angry.
Instead, it was Lancelot who was angered enough by her refusal to lash out at her.
"You set too much value on yourself, girl," he told her roughly, and raked her slim form up and down with a dismissive look.
"I set nothing of the sort," she retorted, her voice flat and even. "My master sets the price for me. And it will be my back, not yours, that suffers his wrath when I fail to produce the required coins."
Lancelot's eyes widened and his face flushed a deep crimson when he understood her meaning.
Morgan was a slave. And in that calm, plainspoken way of hers, she had reminded them that not all whores served by choice.
Tristan watched with mild amusement as the other knights looked away in embarrassment. Gawain hastily pocketed his silver coin. Galahad's wench shook her head in disapproval, as if to say, "some things are better left unsaid."
The new girl had dampened their happy spirits.
But not Tristan's. Tristan wanted to laugh. He admired Morgan's audacity, her bluntness. He admired the cool, detached manner in which she spoke her devastating words. Above all else, he admired her self-control in the face of Lancelot's attempted seduction.
Tristan took a more practical, less sentimental view of her situation. Slavery was a fact of life in Roman society. He and his fellow knights were little more than glorified slaves, pressed into service before most of them had even grown hair one on their privates. The way he saw it, Morgan had a roof over her head and warm clothes to wear. She did not appear malnourished. And for all that talk about being beaten by her master, he very much doubted that the man would actually take a strap to her back—why damage the merchandise?
The other knights might feel ashamed to hire her now—at least for a while—but Tristan felt no such qualms. As Morgan started to walk past him with the empty tray, he tossed his own silver coin at her feet. She looked at it quizzically, perhaps thinking that he had dropped it by accident.
"There will be more later," he told her, leaning forward in his chair until their heads almost touched.
Those disconcerting eyes of hers met his up close for the second time that evening. They were really quite beautiful, Tristan thought—large and almond-shaped and so dark they appeared almost black. She had subtly lined them with kohl in the way of Eastern women—perhaps her one concession to vanity, perhaps under orders from her master. Alluring eyes, Tristan decided, despite their vacant expression. He noticed the exact moment comprehension dawned inside of them—the moment she realized he meant to hire her. There was a flicker of…something…in their empty depths. Was it anger? Resignation? Whatever it was, it was gone as quickly as it came.
Morgan shifted the serving tray to one hand and bent down to retrieve his coin. She carefully placed it inside the pocket pinned to her skirt. With a curt nod of acceptance, she muttered, "I will be back shortly," and continued on her way. She obviously had chores to finish at the tavern. Tristan understood this. In all probability, her master had agreed to let her work as a bar wench for a few hours each night free of charge, in exchange for the opportunity to ply her true trade among the patrons. It was a standard arrangement.
Tristan did not mind the wait; he was a patient man. The girl was his for the night, and that was all that mattered. He sat up straight again to find his comrades staring at him in silence. Lancelot eyed him with disgust, the others with unabashed curiosity. After all, it was not often that Tristan deigned to buy himself a whore.
Tristan slowly stood up and smiled. "Anyone want to throw some knives?"
It was a favorite game of theirs, throwing knives at a wooden post to see whose aim was truest. And Tristan was referring to the game, of course, though he had purposefully kept his words vague to bait his comrades. Lancelot, for one, looked ready to stick him with some blades.
No one replied right away, as the knights tried to figure out Tristan's meaning. But finally, Galahad stood up and said, "Sure, I'm game." And the competition was on.
For the next hour or so, while Morgan finished her work, Tristan and the other knights took turns killing a post. More often than not, whenever they played, Tristan emerged as the clear winner in the game, and tonight was no exception.
At last, he saw Morgan start to make his way toward him, and his body tensed in anticipation. As usual, her expression was cold and impassive, and her gaze was fixed on something far, far away. Tristan expected no different from her—it was partly why he had chosen her in the first place—but he felt a flicker of annoyance nonetheless, toward her and toward himself for feeling it. When she was but a few short paces away, he threw his last knife of the evening. It came within a hair's breadth of her head—so close that he could see the loose tendrils from her braid flutter when the blade flew by on its way to the post. Morgan gasped in shock and belatedly jumped to one side. When she looked up at him, he saw raw, unmitigated fear on her face for a good long moment, before the familiar veil came down.
Fear was not the reaction he hoped to get from her tonight.
But it was a start.
With a satisfied smile, Tristan closed the distance between them, and gently grasped her by the back of the neck. The top of her head did not quite reach his shoulder.
"Come on, let's get out of here," he said, and propelled Morgan toward the open archway...