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TRISTAN'S CHOICE

CHAPTER FOUR

The sun was riding low in the western sky, and Tristan knew he would never reach the next village in time. Tonight he would camp in the woods. He did not mind sleeping out of doors—in fact, he preferred it. He had little use for walls or desire for such confinement. He had little need of a soft bed or the small comforts that meant so much to weaker men.

But a hot meal would have been welcome—and he dared not risk a fire. In the past week he had seen too many fresh signs of Woads south of Hadrian's Wall. Seen the signs, but not seen the Woads themselves. When they traveled in small numbers, the native tribesmen were all but invisible, even to him. Tristan suspected that they were scouts, and that a raid was in the works.

He was still a day's ride away from Camboglanna, and had it been a full-moon night, he would have made a brief stop at the village he knew was about two leagues away, then continued on. But the last two nights had fallen thick and black around him like a cloak, and tonight would be little different. He would not risk injury to his horse by riding in the dark.

The Sarmatian steed had served him faithfully for over fifteen years now, and was as much a part of Tristan as his arms and his legs. The two understood each other in ways that few people could. Their bond was stronger than that of a warrior and his horse. It was an intimacy born of solitude—of long days and nights spent in the wilds with no one but each other for company. No one but each other and a red-and-brown hawk.

As they neared the darkling trees, Tristan gave a low whistle. To an untrained ear, the sound was indistinguishable from the call of some woodland bird. But upon hearing it, his hawk suddenly appeared over the rise of the nearest hill. The scout held out his arm and the beautiful bird swooped down and perched on his leather-bound wrist.

"Where've you been, girl, eh? Where've you been?" he said in a soothing voice laced with genuine affection, as he reached into his bag to give the hawk a piece of jerky.

As much as a man like Tristan could love anyone or anything, he loved his horse and his hawk. They shared an untamed fervor in the blood, a freedom of spirit that no Roman conscription could ever cage.

Although it was barely visible in the waning light, Tristan unerringly guided his horse down a game trail that led them into the deep woods, until they reached a small clearing and a spring-fed pool. The clearing and pool were surrounded by a thick stand of oaks with elaborate runes carved on their ancient trunks. This was a sacred grove—a place of worship from a distant past—forbidden to the natives, possibly even forgotten. Once this had been Woad territory, long before the Romans invaded, but now it was Tristan's. Over the years, he had used this campsite on many occasions, and not once had he seen signs of human habitation, save for those he himself had left behind.

He dismounted with the hawk still on his arm, as the horse bowed his head to drink. In a nearby tree, an owl screeched and the hawk tensed and flapped her red wings, ready to take flight. Tristan chuckled and threw his head back as her wings buffeted his cheeks. And then, he quickly calmed her down with a few soft clucks and a surprisingly gentle hand—soothing the ruffled feathers on her head and back.

"And where did you think you were going? Hmm?" he said, and flicked his finger beneath her beak before finally settling her on a low-hanging branch. "You be a good girl and stay."

In truth, it was of little consequence whether she did or not. The hawk always came back to him. Always. From the very first it had been so—even when he was training her. He never needed to hood or cage her; he never needed to bind her legs in any way. Like recognized like. And the hawk and Tristan were kindred spirits.

She would allow no one but Tristan to touch her. She responded to no one else's command. And if another knight ever got too close for her comfort, well…Tristan figured it was only natural for the hawk to react like the bird-of-prey that she was. He fed her another morsel from his belt bag.

As he turned back to unsaddle his horse, his eyes alighted upon a familiar patch growing among the oaks on the far side of the pool. He recognized the spikes of lilac-purple flowers, now gone gray in the dusk. He breathed in deeply and caught the delicate floral scent among the more pungent odors of the surrounding forest.

Lavender.

It was the scent of the girl's room. It was her scent as well, he knew, though he had barely gotten close enough to sniff her skin. After their heated encounter two weeks ago, he ruthlessly purged her from his mind and kept her out as he went about his business. At the time it seemed a prudent idea. He was put off by what he had seen in her eyes.

It was funny that the patch of lavender should bring her to mind now. It was funny that his loins should suddenly stir at the mere thought of her. She meant nothing to him. And yet…she had pleased him well, and he had pleased her—much to his surprise. Tristan smiled as he loosened the straps that held his quiver to the saddle.

Morgan appeared to be a smart, sensible girl. She would guard her heart well. He removed the quiver and his saddlebags and lay them on the ground.

And it had been two weeks since he hired her. Long enough for his message to have sunk in. He unfastened the girth straps and removed the saddle, then retrieved his last apple from one of the bags and returned to his horse.

"So what do you think?" he asked, in a low voice, as he stroked the long dappled neck. The horse turned his head and pressed it against Tristan's chest, searching for his treat. The scout slid one hand up and down the bony face and fed him the apple.

"Think maybe I should pay the tavern another visit?" The horse snorted—not in response to the question, surely, but Tristan laughed nonetheless. "Yeah, I do too."

That decision made, he stepped away from his horse and took out his own meal of beef jerky. While Tristan quietly chewed, he stared at the still waters of the pool and drank in the cool, misty air of the approaching night. He did not hobble his horse, or tie the reins to a tree. Tristan knew that when he awoke at dawn, his faithful companion would be no more than ten paces away from where he had left him.

As the dark closed in around them, crickets and other insects began their nightly serenade. A mouse or some other rodent scurried in the leaf litter near his saddle. And the owl screeched again. His hawk remained alert—he could see the last of the light catch her dark eyes as she cocked her head toward the offending sound. And his horse began to chomp on the water violets at the pool's edge.

Tristan was not a religious man, nor was he superstitious. But he respected the workings of the natural world, and he respected the serene beauty of this sacred place. As he lay down on a bed of fallen leaves and acorns, he embraced the peace of wild things and instantly fell asleep…

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By late afternoon the following day, Tristan found himself riding through the large wooden gates of Camboglanna. No one shouted a greeting to him, and no one waved a friendly hand though a few Roman guards nodded curtly as he passed. Had the other knights been with him, they would have soon found themselves surrounded by a babbling gaggle of excited women and children and news-hungry men. But this never happened when the scout rode in alone, and he preferred it that way. Though—perhaps because she had crept inside his head yesterday evening and stayed there—he suddenly imagined Morgan waiting for him by the wrought-iron fence of the stableyard, where Vanora and her sizeable brood liked to welcome Bors home.

He shook the unlikely picture from his mind, and followed the cobbled main street until he reached the large stable that doubled as the knights' armory. Though there were grooms aplenty at this time of day, Tristan—like his comrades—preferred to take care of his own horse. Like all Sarmatian cavalry before them, the Knights of the Round Table believed that when a horse served a warrior with steadfast devotion and courage, the warrior should in turn serve the horse by personally seeing to the animal's needs.

This the scout did, after he settled the hawk on her customary perch. A boy brought a bucket of oats for which Tristan muttered a quick "thanks." Then he set to work. He removed the saddle, bags, and bridle and gave them to the boy, and began to thoroughly brush his steed down.

It was always a sensual pleasure for Tristan—the brushing down of his horse's smooth hide and the feel of the strong, rippling muscles underneath. But this time it was even more pleasant, and more sensual. All the while he brushed, Morgan's solemn face and pale naked form invaded his thoughts. Now that he had decided to hire her for the night, his own traitorous body was playing tricks on his mind. Tristan smiled ruefully; he should have been annoyed instead. But, in truth, he looked forward to being inside of her again too much to even care.

Then another thought occurred to him. He glanced out the stable's open doors to check on what remained of daylight. Yes, there was still plenty of time to finish here, give Arthur his report…and take a proper bath before heading to the tavern. Satisfied, Tristan nodded his head, then almost immediately shook it in amused disbelief.

"I'm behaving no better than our pretty boys," he muttered to his horse.

The "pretty boys" were Lancelot and Galahad. When they were in residence at the fort, Tristan reckoned they spent hours each day bathing and primping for the wenches and whores who—with the exception of Morgan—were far from clean themselves.

At last he put the brush back on its peg. He checked his horse's hooves for any lodged pebbles and debris, and spread some more hay on the stall's floor from the bundle in the corner. When he was done, he picked up his weapons and with a final pat to the horse's back, left the stall. By now, most of the grooms had gone for the night. Tristan stored his bow, quiver and scimitar in the armory, together with his armor but only after he had carefully wiped it down with an oilcloth. Just because he was in a hurry to bed Morgan did not mean that he would hurry through his tasks.

The main street of Camboglanna was almost empty when he finally ventured out. With sunset approaching, the shops and marketplace were now closed. Most of the tradesmen and farmers were back home for supper. Only a few stragglers remained chatting in the porticos and porches of closed shops, perhaps, Tristan mused, reluctant to return to their shrewish wives. And save for a handful of guards at the gate and another handful up on the ramparts, the Roman soldiers too were in their barracks, eating and washing and biding their time before the tavern re-opened to the nighttime crowd.

Tristan turned right as he passed the westernmost wall of the stable. It was the only other paved street in Camboglanna and it led north past the tavern and several cross alleys—including the one where Morgan's room was located—until it ended at the knights' estate and Hadrian's Wall. It was still too early for tavern traffic, and the street was deserted except for some urchins playing at war—boys armed with a motley assortment of wooden swords and broomstick spears and barrel lid shields. They ran from alleyway to alleyway ahead of him, laughing and hooting and occasionally cussing at each other. The scout recognized two of Bors' bastards in the pack.

As he idly watched the boys fight their mock battle, Tristan pondered his latest scouting trip. It was apparent to him that Rome's impending withdrawal from Britain had emboldened the native tribesman. More likely than not, the knights and fort soldiers would be fighting the Woads within a week, two at the most. The scout had already warned the villages he passed to prepare for possible raids. There would be killing, and burning, and plenty of it. Arthur had expected as much, but the news would trouble him nonetheless. It would trouble all of the other knights—whose freedom from Rome was so close at hand. But it did not trouble Tristan.

While he wanted his freedom on principle, in his heart he had always been a free man—a free man who lived to fight battles on behalf of others. If not for Rome, then for a private citizen of Rome. Tristan was not particular. He might even fight for the Woads once the Romans left, though in truth, he rather enjoyed killing them. Their slim, naked bodies—tattooed and painted blue—made appealing targets for his bow and his blade.

Ahead of him, the boys ducked into the dirt alleyway that led to Morgan's room.

Tristan smiled a predatory smile. Thoughts of Morgan tonight and of the battle soon to come stirred his blood while he walked, and put him in as a happy a mood as he had ever been.

Suddenly, a cacophony of angry shouts came from the alleyway. He had no trouble recognizing the angriest voice, though he had only heard it raised once before—when she cried out at the end of their coupling. He sprinted to the alley's entrance and one quick glance confirmed his suspicions. Morgan was shouting down the pack of street urchins. Her small body and both fists were clenched in rage. And although she was partially turned away from him, what he could see of her face was flushed a deep crimson.

"How dare you? How dare you?" she shrieked, as she grabbed first one and then another wooden sword and threw them behind her.

Tristan eyed the boys with cold speculation. Had they actually tried to attack her? He could believe it of Bors' sons. The scout's brow furrowed into a dangerous scowl. He was halfway down the alley when Morgan shifted, and he saw the prone body of a dog half-hidden by her homespun skirts. Her outrage was over a dog?

"It's only a bloody dog, Morgan!" Bor's son—Gilley was it?—confirmed it.

"I'll give you bloody!" The girl smacked him hard on the head. Tristan's scowl turned into a comical look of surprise. "You just wait till I tell your mother!"

"And you just wait till I tell our father!" This from Bors' other son. "You're just a stinking whore!" he continued and earned a loud slap on the face for his trouble.

"Anyone else?" she snarled, threatening them with a raised fist. The boys gaped at her and said nothing.

Tristan could hardly believe it. Quiet, self-possessed little Morgan had turned into a crazed termagant right before his eyes.

"Get out of here, you little monsters! Get out!" she now hissed, and choked on her last words. Her body was shaking violently.

The boys seemed more than ready to comply. Before anyone could see him, Tristan ducked into a recessed doorway and shook his head in consternation. All this was over a dog? Was it perhaps her pet? That would explain her fiery reaction, of course, though it still surprised him. She had appeared to be so disciplined, so self-contained…or maybe not. He recalled their passionate coupling.

The retreating boys ran by him in quick succession and did not notice his presence, except for Gilley who briefly stopped and stared at him with owl eyes before scurrying after his playmates. Tristan was about to make a hasty retreat himself when he heard her muffled sob.

He sneaked a peak at her from his hiding place. Morgan now crouched beside the wounded dog and he got his first good look at the animal.

The dog was severely injured, its rib cage rising and falling in slow, jerky spasms. He had seen death enough times to know that the dog was taking its last labored breaths. But Morgan did not seem to realize this.

"I am going to save you," she said in a tremulous voice, and Tristan frowned. How could she possibly believe that?

He quashed the urge to go to her—to tell her it was a lost cause and carry the dying animal away. Why should he care? It was none of his business what she did with the dog. But as he started to head back toward the street, Morgan began to chant in some old Brittonic tongue. And Tristan came to a standstill. Her voice was soft, and not meant to carry far, but he had keener senses than most and could hear her clearly. Whatever language she was singing in, it was certainly not the one spoken by the local Celts or Woads. He slowly turned, and retraced his steps to the recessed doorway where he could watch her unobserved in the fading light.

Morgan withdrew a small knife from her belt. She seemed calmer now, in control of her emotions, as she held the knife above her head and continued to chant. Did she mean to end the animal's suffering? Mercy killing was something Tristan understood well—after all, was he not a merciful killer?

But Morgan did not kill the dog.

To his astonishment, she lowered the knife to the ground and with its point traced a circle around the injured animal and herself. For a brief moment, as she was circling with the knife, she faced him and he drew back into the shadows, but not before he saw the cold, steely determination in her eyes. It was a look that spoke of her willingness to complete the task at hand come what may. It was a look he had seen many times before on the battlefield—on doomed men who continued to fight until they breathed their very last. When his time came, Tristan knew he would die with such a look on his face.

The girl must be mad. Should any Roman happen by and see the circle or hear her chanting from the street, she would be instantly arrested for witchery—and all for the sake of a dog that would soon be dead. Tristan felt a cold, deep anger seep through his veins. Now he watched the street as much as he watched her, his hand curled tightly around the hilt of his knife. He watched the shuttered windows and closed doors in the alleyway too, for any sign that someone else might be looking and listening.

Morgan did not pause in her song when she set down her blade and removed a pink stone from her pocket. She did not pause in her song when she gently placed it on the animal's body together with her hands. And Tristan suddenly realized that he could recognize one name that she kept repeating over and over. Suleviae. A trio of mother goddesses worshipped by the Celts—and outlawed by the Roman Christians. A few years back the monks at Avallana had uncovered a secret shrine dedicated to Suleviae in a nearby farming village. Several women were killed—trampled and hacked to pieces by Roman cavalry as they tried to escape into the woods. Tristan knew because he had been there.

Morgan was reckless beyond compare, and utterly, utterly mad. Once again, Tristan stifled the urge to go to her—this time to haul her bodily away from the dying dog or at the least kill the wretched animal himself, and erase that incriminating circle.

Why should he bother? Why should he care? he wondered. He owed her nothing. She meant nothing. If he was smart—and Tristan liked to think that he was—he would slip out of the alley and go home, and not bother with a bath or the tavern or her.

And yet…he remained right where he was, knife in hand, ready to protect her if he must.

He had enjoyed her once, and he wanted to enjoy her again. For that reason alone—he told himself—he would play the role of lookout while she played the role of lunatic.

He was eyeing the gloomy street for passersby when Morgan's chant abruptly ended. The animal must be dead. Tristan shifted his attention back to her. She was standing now, still partially turned away from him, looking down at the dog. The circle was gone. As he watched, she stepped around the animal and smiled.

"Come," she coaxed, with an outstretched hand.

And to Tristan's profound shock and disbelief, the dog rose on steady legs and wagged its tail.

Morgan lifted her head and looked down the alleyway. Her eyes skimmed the shadowy recesses on either side and seemed to settle for a moment on the darkened doorway where he hid. His body tensed, but she simply turned away. And with the dog in tow—now spry and bouncy like a young pup—she climbed the narrow stairs to her room.

Tristan remained frozen in his hiding place.

What had he witnessed here?

The dog should be dead.

Tristan was not superstitious by nature. And while he—like most Pagans—did not scoff at the power of magic—not exactly—for the most part, he viewed it as nothing more than harmless tomfoolery.

But this went far beyond simple, harmless spellcasting. It went far beyond anything he had ever seen.

The dog should be dead.

And Morgan…Morgan was a bloody sorceress.

"Gods," he muttered through gritted teeth, as he rubbed his face with his hands. Tristan stepped out into the alleyway and glanced up at the closed door of Morgan's room. "They will crucify her…"

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HISTORICAL NOTES: 1) The Woads (Picts) often fought completely nude. As depicted in the film, they also tattooed themselves and painted their bodies blue with a dye made from the woad plant. 2) In Celtic lore, pink stones (e.g. pink quartz, agate) were believed to have healing properties. 3) Suleviae was an actual trio of mother goddesses worshipped by the ancient Celts, with shrines scattered throughout Britain and continental Europe. These goddesses were closely associated with healing. As a fiction writer, I used a little bit of artistic license in writing this chapter—as far as I know, no Pagans were ever killed by Christians for worshipping Suleviae.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: in the first part of this chapter, I attempted to show a different, slightly "softer" side to Tristan—a side that seldom emerges in the presence of other people, who view him, for the most part, as a cold-hearted killer, and little else. I do not think the "softer" side I presented here conflicts with that darker part of him. Instead, I believe it complements it. Individuals are composites of both good and bad traits, and Tristan does have some goodness hidden inside of him. He is a true creature of Nature—a wild child—and his cold, detached manner around people, and seeming lack of conscience, are best understood in this context.