Thanks to all my kind reviewers: L J Groundwater (I'm doing my best!), ShatteredDesire, Stahlfan125, Squallsgurlygurl, Ivory Novelist, Camreyn (I'm really grateful for this review- it gave me a fantastic insight into how my work reads. Thank you!) , Shauna, Demus, GaBo0, Jemiul, Steelsings (all questions will be answered. In the mean time, I loved my review!), S, Hidden, Goody and mrsjdhappiness.

Chapter Six

Cynric awoke when a foot collided with his stomach. He groaned and rolled onto his back. "Who do you think you are?" he growled at the man who had kicked him- one of Cerdic's heavies by the look of the brute.

"Come with me," said the man, hauling Cynric to his feet and unceremoniously pushing him forwards.

"Do you know who I am?"

"Do I look like I care?" The last remark was punctuated with the harsh jab of a knife to Cynric's back. "King Cerdic would like a word."

Cerdic's big, filthy tent was filled with big, filthy men. Cerdic stood in the centre, next to a man bearing a flame torch.

"What?" demanded Cynric. He glared daggers at his father.

"You address me as 'My Lord'." There was ice in Cerdic's voice.

"What, My Lord?" Cynric eyed the occupants of his father's tent somewhat nervously and wondered why he hadn't thought to call for his own division of men.

"You have once again shown a remarkable talent for failure," said Cerdic.

Cynric began to tremble. "What, My Lord, have I done?"

"The knight –Sir Lancelot- has been freed." Cerdic cracked his knuckles menacingly.

"No. It's not possible. He's under guard… He can't be…"

Cerdic nodded and two of his men stepped forward. One grabbed Cynric in an iron embrace, the other drew a knife that glinted in the torchlight.

"Father!" cried Cynric, shocked and fearful.

"I am not your father; you are not my son." Cerdic nodded again and the man with the knife cut off Cynric's beard- the ultimate sign of dishonour. Cynric tried not to look relieved and nearly succeeded. In the place of fear, anger rose up inside of him. To be so humiliated and in front of so many people… He vowed revenge at that moment: not on his father –God help those who sought revenge on the King of the Saxons- but on Lancelot.

"Fail me again, soldier, and the pain will be lower on your body and much more real." Cerdic made a crude gesture and the crowd of men began to laugh.

They threw the beardless Cynric out into the night.

The band of knights reached Hadrian's Wall at dawn the following morning. The air was cold and damp and from the look of the clouds, rain was impending.

The world had turned grey, Lancelot decided once he had been woken by Tristan's whisper of 'the wall' in his ear.

"Good to be home!" declared Galahad happily.

"Now that's a fine thing to say after your antics yesterday!" Bors said indignantly. This last remark was a direct reference to the pretty fair-haired girl or perhaps fifteen that was clinging to Galahad's waist and smiling happily.

Galahad defended himself heartily but soon realised he was fighting a losing battle against the taunts of Bors and the chuckles of Gawain. "I merely rescued her!" he cried.

"Sure you did!"

"She's a runaway, poor thing…" Galahad was blushing.

Bors grinned. "Awww… Look at that. The young 'un is in love. Flying away on the wings of his first true passion… Oh! The romance of it!"

Gawain laughed even harder as Galahad turned scarlet.

"She's a runaway from the Saxons army. Perhaps their living conditions aren't all that great…" mused Arthur, ignoring Galahad's plight. His eyes fell on Lancelot for a moment and he considered asking his friend exactly what it had been like in the Saxon camp before he thought better of it. Lancelot looked weary, haggard and oddly nervous; he was leaning right back into Tristan's embrace as if afraid of falling from the horse. He had plainly been through a lot; why worsen his pain by asking him to remember things that should plainly be forgotten?

Lancelot sensed Arthur's gaze on him. He turned and met his friend's eyes. "It's hell," he said. He almost felt Tristan's grip on him tighten as he said it. Perhaps he imagined it.

They were admitted into the fort without hesitation where they were met with perhaps two-dozen people: scarcely half of the inhabitants that had lived there two days ago. The Britons were evidently fleeing before the advancing Saxon army.

"Not long now," said Bors. He had become subdued in the face of the mass desertion of the fortress. His smile was grim as he leapt from his horse and embraced Verona and as many bastard children as he could lay his hands on.

In the eager delight of homecomings, no one save Tristan noticed Lancelot approach the ironsmith.

Two Hours Later

Tristan had never been near Lancelot's room before. He lifted a hand up to the door and clenched it into a fist. It looked strange. The hand was ready for a fight but there was just a door standing in the way. Clenched fists were for fighting: the rest of life was a test of silence and stealth- a test in which only the silent and stealthy could ever hope to succeed.

Tristan was the incarnation. Silence and stealth in a man.

He lowered his hand and leant his weight against the door. It didn't open. He glanced left and right down the hallway then, still as quietly as possible, charged the door- once, twice… He stopped and glared at the obstacle in his way.

It was locked.

Tristan had come this far; he determined upon breaking the door down if he had to. He paused for a moment in preparation; his lithe body was tense like a spring. Then there was the scraping of metal and a second later the door swung open and lancelot stood before him.

"Why not knock?" Lancelot asked as Tristan stepped past him.

"Knights don't have locks on their doors."

"Perhaps they should, if people are just going to barge in." The old Lancelot would have delivered the remark with a cutting edge. The old Lancelot would have smirked.

"I'm so tired," said this Lancelot sitting on the edge of his bed and lowering his head into his hands. He watched as Tristan examined the crude iron latch on his door. "Why are you here?"

"To bring you this." Tristan set a tiny stone jar of ointment down on the floor. "This is for the scratches and the bite," he said.

"Bite?" Lancelot shrugged- waved a hand around vaguely. Feigned innocence."I don't know what you're talking about."

"You do," Tristan replied. His eyes examined Lancelot shamelessly. In the right light the contrast between pale skin and thepurple-black bruise on the man's cheek was beautiful."You said you were torn," Tristan said softly.

"Did I? I don't know." Lancelot looked up at Tristan. "Maybe you could come back later."

Tristan nodded his head again, the movement impressive in its majesty.

For Tristan, later occurred two hours after the last meeting.

This time he did knock on the door. It was soft and reluctant, as if he did not like announcing his presence so boldly.

"Tristan?" Lancelot asked.

"Yes."

Lancelot climbed off his bed, padded across the room and lifted the crude iron latch. Tristan stood on the other side, his long hair damp and tangled and hanging in curtains framing his face, and a large armful of firewood clutched to his breast. He gave a barely perceptible nod by way of greeting and barged into Lancelot's room.

"I'll light the fire."

Lancelot watched as he did so, tenderly breathing life into a spark and then a flame and then a tiny blaze. The fire smoked badly. It had clearly not been lit that often.

Tristan didn't sit down but instead stood while Lancelot perched on the edge of his bed.

"I know what was done to you," Tristan said. For the first time in his life, his did manage to look as though he found something awkward. "I know what they did."

"You can't," Lancelot said. After all who could possibly imagine what had happened?

Arthur never could.

"I do," Tristan insisted. There was something, some trace of emotion in his voice: a vowel catching in his throat, a stutter on the first syllable. "When I was young, nine perhaps, two men came to myhome. I cannotrecall exactly what they looked like but I have the impression that they were very big."

"And?" Tristan had always been an enigma: anything he said could inspire curiosity.

"They stank of ale and smoke and filth." Tristan paused and rubbed a gnarled hand across his temple. He looked suddenly old. "Mostly of ale, though. They laughed and my mother never made a noise."

Lancelot leaned forward, silently urging Tristan to continue. "A noise?"

"No. Not a whimper all through it. One of them knocked her to the floor, sat on her, forced her legs apart…"

Lancelot stared at him, dreading what he knew he was about to hear.

"They raped her, Lancelot." No words could fully encapsulate the emotion of a nine-year-old boy made to watch what he didn't fully understand but all the same knew to be intrinsically wrong.

"I'm sorry," whispered Lancelot. The back of his throat tickled, heralded tears. He hadn't cried since he was a boy. Tristan probably hadn't either. Not since the men had left and his mother had wept. She'd probably sworn him to silence: don't tell your father, Tristan-dear. It wasn't anything important. Lancelot could hear the words Tristan's mother would have said.

He felt his pain mingling with that of a nine-year-old Tristan.

"I'm sorry," said Tristan. "I'm sorry thatI know. I wish I didn't "

"Tell no one," Lancelot said fiercely. He looked like a wounded predator.The dancing flames of the firewere reflected in his eyes. He was more beautiful than ever, Tristan realised. "Not even Arthur."

Tristan said nothing.

"Tell no one, Tristan. You must swear it. On your honour."

Tristan still hesitated but then Lancelot's eyes were burning into his soul. It would be so easy to lie if it weren't for the word 'honour'.

"I swear it," Tristan said. He was suddenly weary: desperate for his own bedchamber- desperate to escape the beautiful man with eyes that burned.

"On your honour?"

"My honour," he agreed.

Tristan moved quickly along the passages with his cloak trailing in his wake. The very air inside the keep was oppressing him; the walls were slowly but inexorably closing in.

He'd been alone for too long. Company –real company, real relationships- unnerved him. He craved wide expanses of cloudless sky and the world empty except for him and his horse and his hawk.

And the odd enemy to kill, of course.

Outside, Tristan gulped down air like a man starved of oxygen. It was freezing and yet there was an indescribable tension in the air that spoke of a storm coming. "They'll be a storm tonight," he said to Bors when the giant man joined him outside.

"Where's Lancelot?" Bors demanded . "Why can't we see 'im?"

On your honour, you said, thought Tristan. He shrugged his shoulders. "How's Vanora?"

"Vanora's fine. Now, is somethin' wrong with Lancey or not?"

Tristan wished he hadn't promised Lancelot anything. He took out one of his throwing knives fromits sheathand tested the edge for sharpness in the hope that Bors would become bored and go away. A tiny droplet of blood formed on his finger, which he ignored. When he looked up again, Bors was still there only now he was flanked by Galahad and Gawain.

"The Saxons are brutal," said Tristan noncommittally. "You know that."

"What did they do to him?" asked Galahad, looking at him stonily. They were a band of knights: equals at the round table; equals in battle- they killed together, lost friends together, risked their own lives together; afterwards, they celebrated together. There could be no secrets between them. "What's wrong?"

"He's wounded."

"He looks fine to me," said Bors. "Fact, I've seen him more beat up than that many times."

Tristan sighed. He looked appealingly at Galahad and Gawain. "Not all wounds are visible," he ventured but was met with blank stares by all three men.

"Huh?"

"Not all wounds are visible," he said again, putting extra emphasis on the words 'wounds' and 'visible'. He felt like a traitor.

No response.

"Has he gone mad?" asked Galahad eventually.

Tristan shook his head; put his knife back in its sheath.

"Has who gone mad?" asked Arthur, blinking slightly as he emerged from the gloom of the keep into the stark winter daylight. Tristan's saviour.

"Lancelot," said Galahad.

Arthur stared at the youngest knight for a moment, surprise etched clearly across his face. "I can tell you who has gone mad!" he laughed.

"No really," said Bors. Anger was visible in his countenance as he took an involuntary step towards Tristan. "Something's up with Lancelot. And 'e," a thumb was jerked at the dark haired knight, "won't tell us what."

"Bors, calm down." If he hadn't been a soldier, a career in diplomacy would have been admirably suited for Arthur. "I'm sure that if something were really wrong with Lancelot then Tristan would-"

"It's not my place to tell." Tristan said coldly. He stalked off.

"Something's wrong," said Gawain. "They did something to Lancelot."

"Something bad," Bors added grimly.

Arthur watched Tristan walk away and wondered.

Arthur pulled his cloak about him as he made his way to the stables. He ran across the courtyard, his boots –with iron-shod toes- clattered on the stone.

Tristan was exactly where he was expected, for once, sitting on the dirt floor, covered in grime and cleaning a saddle lovingly: his cloth working small circles across the leather, leaving a deep honey-brown shine behind it. Arthur almost smiled.

"What is it?" asked Tristan without looking up.

"Can I have a word?" Arthur asked.

Tristan continued with his task but did incline his head. It was a slight movement but Arthur understood it to mean 'yes'.

"What happened to Lancelot? You may not want to say it in front of the others but I hope that you might feel able to tell me."

This time Tristan did look up. His eyes met Arthur's but he didn't speak.

"Tell me," Arthur demanded. "I shall order it."

"And I shall not speak." Tristan's eyes were dark. "I have never disobeyed an order but if you make me, I shall not hesitate."

In the face of this defiance, Arthur turned away- he was touched, angry, and desperate: far too many emotions at once.

"I shall ask Lancelot," he said sadly. "He will tell me."

"He may."

Arthur left and Tristan took up his horse's bridle to clean. He tried to ignore the feeling that had arisen in his chest: a great heat as if from too much ale and yet there was a nervous edge to it. Tristan wasn't used to feeling like this.

Was it love? How could he possibly know?

Arthur knocked on Lancelot's door. "It's me," he announced.

He knocked a second time, then a third. "Lancelot? Are you in there?"

"Not now, Arthur. Tomorrow maybe."

Arthur stared at the door for a moment, debating with himself. Should he call out again? Give reasons to be admitted? What sort of reasons could he come up with anyway? Let me in because you're my best friend. Let me in because I want to help you.

Let me in because I need you.

Arthur didn't say anything and the door didn't open. In that minute, it seemd to him as if twelve inches of oak might as well be the entire world.He felt cut off from Lancelot. He tried to convince himself that his friend was on the other side of the door but for some reason the notion would not stay in his head.

Arthur walked away.

He didn't exactly walk in any particular direction and yet he found himself on the wall of the battlements. He leant on the wall and wondered why he felt empty. After all, he knew he should be happy. Everything he had prayed for had come true. Everything he had asked for had been granted him. Lancelot was alive; he would live to fight another day- another battle.

No, Arthur corrected himself. Their battles were over and the green pastures of peace spread out at their feet. His friend was here and alive and yet this ridiculous emptiness seemed to have settled inside of him. God, what he wouldn't give for human contact! A manly pat on the shoulder, a backslapping embrace… Maybe he could hold Lancelot and tell him it was over; tell him everything would be just fine.

Because it would be. Lancelot had been through Hell and come out the other side. It wasn't supposed to be possible but he had done it. Arthur realised he was being ungrateful and he screwed up his eyes to pray.

O Lord, in Heaven above,

I thank you for bringing him home.

Father, please grant him the strength to recover from his ordeal

And let the strength to help him be mine.

Lord, I would give my life for him.

Take everything I have, take everything but not him.

Arthur closed his eyes even tighter. He took a deep breath and then another and willed himself calm.

"Thank you, Lord, for saving him."

"God didn't save him- I did." That was Tristan beside him. The man was stealth itself; all silent footsteps, shallow breathing.

"And I'm grateful for it," said Arthur, a little too formally. "With all my heart," he added.

The heart is ugly and bloody and red and bruised, Tristan thought but did not say. He leant over the ramparts next to Arthur.

"I don't want your thanks," he growled.

"What do you want?"

"To tell you I'm leaving." Tristan looked up at the sky. "Not tomorrow –there's a storm coming- but dawn the next day."

Arthur turned, looked at Tristan and almost wished he hadn't. There was no emotion in that face. The eyes sparkled but neither with mirth nor malice. "To Samartia?" Arthur asked. "Wait for us, then. We'll leave as soon as Lancelot's well."

"Not to Samartia."

"Then where?"

Tristan shrugged, ever nonchalant. "The next war. There's always need for men like me- a mercenary soldier, scout, cavalryman, I'll be in the shield wall if I must-"

Arthur cut him off. "-Why seek out death?" he asked.

Again, the nonchalant shrug, the expressionless voice. A man devoid of feelings. "Tell me exactly what is it that is so wonderful about this world, that I should fear to leave it?" Tristan didn't expect an answer. He began to walk off.

"What about Lancelot?!" Arthur called after him.

Tristan turned with hawk-like grace and precision. "I'll see him before I go."

He left, looking very much like a bird of prey. To a casual onlooker -indeed to Arthur himself - Tristan looked the same as he always did. The man was uncannily adept at disguising his feelings.

The fact that he had fallen in love was scarcely visible.

For Tristan, love was just another invisible wound.

Tbc…