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Mourning
The knights sat around the large round table. They already discussed pertinent business, but now lingered. Arthur felt sorrow again take hold of his heart. He looked at each man, each brother in arms who he hadn't led to death.
He wished there were more at this table now. But battle and orders hadn't been kind over the last 15 years. And they hadn't found Tristan. The hawk came back a day after their return to Hadrian's Wall. What that meant could only be guessed. And the only guess left was that Tristan was gone, either from this land, the world, or both.
Gawain shifted in his seat and took a final swig of ale. He finished it with a smack of his lips and placed the cup loudly on the table.
"Arthur, what of your wedding?" he asked. His question brought a light air to the men, and Arthur found himself sitting up straighter in his chair.
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Germanius stood closely to the edge of the deck, overseeing his soldiers as they tossed a rope around Tristan. It was like a noose, only larger. He sighed in relief as they pulled the rope, bringing Tristan in. The ship still lurched, but that wouldn't stop Germanius.
Tristan wasn't moving. He hung limply from the rope, and his body just thudded when dumped on the deck. Germanius frowned and knelt by the scout's side.
"He's not breathing," the ship's captain said from behind him. Germanius rolled his eyes.
"Yes, I know," he said. He raised his hand and slapped Tristan across the face, hard.
Nothing. He pursed his lips and raised his hand again. The slap was harder this time, and even in the rain sounded across the deck. Water spurted from the knight's mouth, and he rolled to his side as he coughed it from his lungs.
Germanius stood and watched the knight carefully. Falling off the boat in the middle of the night was not a common incident, and Germanius meant to discover exactly what the knight was up to.
Tristan's eyes opened. He stayed on his side, coughing once more before he glanced around. His eyes met the bishop's. Slowly, he shut his eyes again.
"We lost two men, Bishop," Ortegius said. Germanius raised an eyebrow and peered at Tristan.
The scout said nothing. He just rolled onto his back and let the rain fall down on him.
"Take him to his cabin," Germanius commanded. "And lock the door."
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They dropped him on the floor and left. Tristan heard a key being turned, and he knew he'd be here for awhile.
He lay on his back and stared at the ceiling. It was moving, or so it seemed. The feel of the ocean rocked him to and fro. He blinked, and sat up. His clothes dripped with rain and seawater. A nice puddle of water surrounded him.
"Just like the hull," he mused. He stood and pulled off his wet clothes, opting for those nice clean and dry ones set aside earlier.
Death cheated him again. He remembered that massive wave coming down on him. He'd just watched it and calmly waited. He didn't actually remember being pushed under the water by the force. The only thing that came next was coming to again with Germanius at his side.
Tristan eyed the weird hanging bed before precariously climbing into it. It wasn't terribly kind to his back, but it reminded him of sleeping in a tree. As a scout, he'd done that every now and then. However, the bed swung with the ship's movement. His stomach churned.
Tristan tumbled to the floor as he tried to get out of the thing. His hands clutched his side and stomach.
He opened his mouth wide, taking in air slowly, steadily. His stomach still churned. Not again, he pleaded in his mind. He hadn't gotten sick in a few days, and didn't really want to again. His stomach was empty anyway. The last time he ate was . . . last night? Once a day, usually, but he hadn't really kept track. It seemed though that one didn't need food or drink in his belly to warrant vomiting.
The salt in his mouth irritated Tristan. He turned to the side and spit out what he could, then fell on his back again.
He thought Britain was hellish.
The sea was worse.
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Germanius knew Tristan wasn't innocent in his accident at sea, but it didn't bother him too much. He knew the knight was bound to test restraint. He just wouldn't allow it anymore.
He kept the scout locked in his cabin most of the time, only allowing him to come out when the Roman soldiers were armed and vigilant. Tristan acted like he didn't see them. He would just go to the ship's side and lean on it. He'd look out for awhile, then turn and stare at the other side of the ocean. Never once did he utter a word.
The sailors talked about the scout, curious as to why this dangerously-kept man would be going to Rome, and not sentenced to immediate death. If he was being guarded all the time, surely that meant he'd committed a heinous crime. Germanius didn't bother to correct them. Fear had its uses for now. Better to fear his knight than sympathize with him.
Tristan finally surprised him with a request.
"I need to practice the sword," he said, his face as blank as always. "You want me because I fight. I haven't touched a weapon for almost three weeks. Any longer and I'll be useless."
Germanius' jaw dropped. He'd never heard so many words from the scout's mouth all at once.
When shock subsided, he waved for Ortegius.
"Get him a practice sword," he ordered.
For the rest of the journey, Tristan spent a few hours each day practicing. He sparred with the soldiers too, and bested each one. There were moments that Germanius thought one of his men would win, but then Tristan would dodge a blow with such grace and fluidity that his men didn't see the potentially fatal strike coming.
It only strengthened Germanius' resolve. He was right—Tristan was a warrior. As Rome's port came into view, he knew he brought with him something powerful.