Thank you L J Groundwater, Drakcir, Corina, hornofgondor2, scandalous-sugababes, KnightGuardian, Camreyn, Ivory Novelist, RiseAgainPhoenix, perberaidien, MsyticNight, Gypsy Luv, Syn, DarkHiei 11, forgotten-magick and WanderingWonder. Sorry for taking so long.
Chapter Fifteen"You hate the Saxons?"
"I do," Tristan said, thinking of Lancelot.
Guinevere smiled. "To beat the Saxons we need Arthur."
"Arthur will not fight," Tristan said. "He's tired of bloodshed... Unless-"
"Unless Lancelot fights," Guinevere suggested. "They are very close, Lancelot and Arthur, aren't they? Like brothers, you might say."
"Or like lovers." Tristan gave Guinevere a tight smile. "Lancelot will fight against the Saxons. He craves revenge."
Guinevere didn't ask what for. Perhaps she already knew. Who could know what spies these people might have?
A Day For Enemies
Tristan ran ahead of them, swiftly and softly, his feet scarcely touching the ground.
Arthur might have hesitated as Tristan led them towards a patch of dense woodland, perhaps two miles to the south-east of the fortress. In the bright wintry daylight the looming trees looked dark and somehow sinister. So yes, Arthur would have hesitated, had Lancelot not followed Tristan unquestioningly.
That was the thing about Lancelot: if you had his loyalty, you would never lose it. They had only been in Britain for three winters when Lancelot had boldly declared to Arthur that – if needs must – he would follow his Commander anywhere, even to the innermost circle of hell. Wherever that might be.
And so the Knights followed Tristan into the trees.
"Tristan!" Arthur spurred his horse into a canter until he drew level with the scout. "Where are you taking us, Tristan?"
Tristan slowed down to a walk, forcing Arthur to pull his horse us sharply. "This is the Woad camp," Tristan said. He smiled – albeit a little sadly – up at his Commander.
Arthur stared down at the scout, horrified. Achingly slowly, he dismounted and led his horse forwards. His hand settled on the hilt of his sword, even as figures emerged from the trees; they were men and women, all lithe bodies and leather armour, and skin painted blue to blend with the shadows.
Arthur's voice was barely a whisper as he stepped closer to Tristan. "You've taken us to the Woad camp. Why?"
Tristan didn't answer. Nor did he flinch as Bors brought his horse up behind him and forced an arm round his neck. "What the bleeding hell do you think you're playing at!" Bors tightened his grip on Tristan.
Several voices spoke at once; all said the same thing: "Let him go!" Arthur's voice was commanding; Lancelot's a little fearful; Guinevere, as she too emerged from the trees, sounded deadly.
Arthur stared at the young woman, his almost-lover. "Why have we been brought here?" he asked. The frown creasing his face made him look older than his years.
"Merlin wishes to speak with you."
"But is it only words he asks for?"
"Yes."
Arthur bowed. "Then I cannot refuse."
And so it was that the Knights entered the camp of their former enemy: the Woads.
Side by side, the Knights stood before Merlin. Up close, the man's body was that of someone very very old, though his eyes were still bright. He was sitting on the edge of a small clearing in the trees, surrounded by men and women, all fierce warriors by the look of them.
Tristan was also there, sitting quietly beneath a tree, his eyes almost closed and his hands still by his sides. For a moment Lancelot was struck by the ineffability of Tristan- there was that something, that incomparable, inexpressible something. Only Tristan had it. A certain stillness, a certain nobility… Something in the flicker of his heavy-lidded eyes that said: "You may not trust yourself but you can trust me. Go on, have faith."
And so there was Tristan, motionless in the corner, bathed in shadow and mystery. A spectre.
Lancelot watched him and wondered. He'd always known he loved Arthur. Somewhere, deep down, that love had become a part of him: an extension of himself. But what he felt for Tristan was different. It wasn't love as such- more of a heat, a warmth, a need to be touched. Perhaps a little bit of desire too… Lancelot could almost imagine how - in a different world, a world without Arthur - it might have been. Yes, he could picture a scenario, a rainstorm perhaps? He might remove his clothing and there would be Tristan. It would be all too easy to press his hot body against Tristan's cool flesh.
Lancelot shook his head. He had to choose; it had to be this way. Arthur or Tristan. One or the other.
Merlin's voice broke into Lancelot's reverie. "Knights of the Round Table, my kin welcomes you," said the leader of the Woads.
Arthur, ever gracious, inclined his head.
"Long have you been our enemy: now we must unite if we wish to defeat the Saxons."
Perhaps Arthur had been expecting this;he did not look surprised. Lancelot gazed round at the faces of the others: Gawain looked oddly unmanned; Bors outraged; Galahad extremely angry. Tristan, however, didn't move a muscle or make a sound. He was like a statue.
Arthur spoke up. "My men have earned their freedom. They are leaving. I am leaving."
Merlin shook his head. "The Saxon King, Cerdic, is barbaric. The things he does… They do not bear thinking about." Merlin's eyes settled on Lancelot and it was almost as if he knew what had happened. Almost. "Will you let the invader triumph? Will you abandon the land that for the last fifteen years you have bled for and risked death for..?"
"I hate this land!" That was Galahad speaking, his eyes blazing with angry madness. "I have shed blood for it – too much blood. There shall be no more!"
Arthur reached across and settled a hand on the youngest knight's armour. "It's okay, Galahad… You shall not fight."
"Nor I," said Gawain. He gave Merlin a half-bow. "I have too much to live for."
Merlin nodded gravely. "And you?" he turned to Bors. "Will you help us?"
"I have a woman. I have children. I owe it to them to keep living."
Silence descended on the company. Across the faces of many of the Woads disappointment was written, possibly even despair. Merlin, however, remained undaunted. "What about you, Lancelot?" he asked, in his soft voice.
No, Lancelot would not fight again. Not in a million years. And so Lancelot opened his mouth, determined to refuse.
"Cynric will be there," Tristan said suddenly. His eyes sought out Lancelot's. "Cynric will be fighting. Tomorrow."
If Lancelot had only turned away, if he had only glanced at Arthur, then he might still have said 'no'. Instead he said: "I will fight."
His words seemed to echo through the clearing. Besides him, Lancelot could feel Arthur grow tense.
And then there was silence.
"Knights of the Round Table, whether you have agreed to fight with us or not, we ask you to accept our hospitality for the night."
Arthur nodded. He spared a swift glance for Lancelot, swallowed, then looked at the floor.
A Night For Lovers
Tristan wanted to speak with him. He wanted to speak with Tristan. So why was this so difficult?
It all boiled down to one thing. Arthur or Tristan. Tristan or Arthur.
And Lancelot had made his decision.
Walking through the Woad camphe could sense eyes burning into his back. Everywhere there was someone watching him.
"Do you know where Tristan is?" he asked one woman- she looked to be kin of Guinevere, a half-sister or possibly a cousin.
"The silent man, with the strange markings on his cheeks..?" The woman smiled, a little wistfully. "He is over there."
Tristan looked strangely insubstantial, silhouetted against the roaring fire. The slenderness of his frame was obvious as he sat hunched over hands that were extended, fingers stretched wide, towards the flames.
Lancelot cleared his throat. He felt as if he were intruding. "You asked to speak with me?"
Tristan didn't acknowledge him in any way. Lancelot sat next to the scout, awkward and rigid.
"What is it, Tristan?" Lancelot asked. He laid his hand on Tristan's shoulder.
Tristan flinched at the contact. "I'm a fool," he said. "I despise myself."
"Why?"
Tristan swept Lancelot's hand from his shoulder. He turned to look at the younger man; his facial expression was guarded. The dark eyes were hard and glistened in the glow from the fire like emeralds. "Nearly fifteen years of service passed without change and then, in the last week…" Tristan avoided Lancelot's gaze, instead looked fixedly over his left shoulder. "Ruin," he whispered, his lips barely moving as his mouth formed the word.
"Ruin?" Lancelot repeated. He didn't understand; after the rape he had felt that he understood Tristan- that somehow he had seen into the other man's soul and discovered that there is a capacity for love beneath even the coldest exterior. "You're not ruined; you're fine, you're alive. You've gained your freedom and if you'd only leave now then-"
"There never was freedom. I thought there was but-" Tristan stood up, abruptly. "Here I am standing before you in chains." He looked at Lancelot, finally, for a brief heavy second. "I hate you," he said softly. "I really do."
Lancelot stared after him as Tristan stepped away from the campfire and melted into the darkness like a creature of the underworld. One minute he wants to spend the rest of his life with me and then he hates me… Lancelot shivered. And who can blame him…
"Tristan!" Lancelot called. "Tristan, please! Tristan, I-"
"What?"
Lancelot jumped as Tristan materialised before him; his long hair was silver in the starlight. It shadowed his face.
"I never told you I was sorry," Lancelot said. "I never had the chance to tell you why I couldn't come away with you."
Tristan had a look in his eyes, then- an angry, wild look. Lancelot stepped backwards and told himself not to be afraid, even as his back collided with a tree. This is Tristan… He would never harm you.
Tristan stepped forward and reached out his arms so that they rested against the wood, one on either side of Lancelot. "You love Arthur," Tristan whispered. "I can see it written across your soul."
And he leaned forward, slowly closing the distance between them. He brushed his lips against Lancelot's cheek. And then he tilted Lancelot's head to the side, a little roughly perhaps, and kissed him. The younger knight, caught off his guard, gave a breathy moan and Tristan swallowed the sound, his tongue caressing Lancelot's lips, dancing in his mouth,
And then, abruptly, he broke away.
"Everything happens for a reason," Tristan said. "This is no exception." He turned to leave but Lancelot caught his arm and gripped it.
"Will you fight with me tomorrow?" Lancelot asked. "By my side?"
The look on Tristan's face spoke volumes. Why ask a question to which you already know the answer, Lancelot?
"Yes," Tristan said.
Lancelot watched as Guinevere left Arthur's tent. Surely not… He looked down at his shaking hands and wondered why Arthur had abandoned Guinevere in the first place. They made a lovely couple; they looked just like a couple should look.
"Are you alright, Lancelot?" Guinevere called.
"Not too bad… You?"
"I will be better once the fighting begins!" She gave him a fierce smile. "Arthur awaits you inside."
"He awaits me?"
"He wishes to speak with you and…" Guinevere's smile turned into something more closely resembling a leer. "…Well, I'll leave it to you to find out." She nodded to him and then padded away towards Merlin's lair. She moved like Tristan- with as little sound as the beating of a moth's wings.
He wishes to speak with me and... other things. Could it be possible that Arthur felt the same as him? Did Arthur know how it felt to have half of your heart belong to another person?
Lancelot had to find out.
He stepped into Arthur's tent.
"Hello, Lancelot," Arthur was standing a few feet away, facing him, trying to smile.
"Arthur."
The walls of the tent were hung with soft green fabric. Lancelot surveyed them with a half-smile crossing his face. "This tent is the colour of your eyes," he said, blushing slightly.
"I said I could sleep under the stars but no one would listen. Guinevere kept telling me that I would want the privacy of a tent and-" Arthur blushed, suddenly and endearingly. "And she also said I was in love with you." He sounded a little upset.
Lancelot swallowed. "And are you? Are you in love with me?"
"I-" Arthur looked down at his hands, clasped tightly together, the knuckles white. "Please don't fight tomorrow," he said. "Please, I ask you… I couldn't bear it if you were to die. Not now."
Lancelot took a small step forward. "I love you, Arthur," he said, his voice a little rough. "I think I always have done."
"Then leave with me! We can go anywhere!..And if I've never told you how I feel before, you should know it's not for want of feelings! I do love you- More than I ever thought it possible to love another person. And I know that this is wrong – my religion tells me that – yet I can't deny the pull of my own heart. God, I love you!" Arthur shook his head. "Don't fight tomorrow."
"You can't persuade me, Arthur. My decision is made-"
"I beg you reconsider-"
"And," interrupted Lancelot, smiling, "if I am to die tomorrow then, by the gods, I want to live tonight."
Looking back, neither of them knew who moved first. One moment they were frozen to the spot and then Lancelot was moving towards Arthur, who had his arms outstretched and…
They met halfway.
Tbc…