Hey guys! Here's the next chapter. I thought I should put a disclaimer at the beginning that nothing in this is historically accurate except that Bostra and Petra did actually exist during the Roman Empire. Everything else is pure fiction, though, so I apologize for the plethora of inaccuracies resulting from my ignorance on the subject. Thanks!
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Morning had arrived disguised in black storm clouds that cast a shadow over the fort as dark as night. A clap of thunder reverberated against the stones of Hadrian's Wall as Tristan laid Jillian gently in their bed so as not to wake her. She immediately curled herself into a ball, hugging her knees to her chest and shivering from the cold. All was still and quiet except for the sound of rain splattering on the window sill. Tristan pulled the covers over her and felt her forehead with the back of his hand. She was warm, and he knew he would have to go down to the healing room to bring back some medicine to abate the fever.
Jillian rolled over onto her back and looked up at him with foggy eyes. "Are we home?" she whispered hoarsely.
"Yes," he replied, "Go back to sleep. I'll return shortly with herbs to help the fever."
"I'm alright," she protested in a weak, strained voice that was anything but convincing.
"Shhh," said Tristan softly, "Rest. I'll be back soon."
Tristan closed the door softly behind him and made his way down the hall towards the healing room. He could not stop all the events of the past twenty-four hours from stampeding through his head like wild horses. 'Jillian. Gone. Found. Baby. Dead. Jillian. Tarra. Saxons. Tarra. Jillian.' The thoughts pulsed, throbbed, and echoed in his mind, disconnected, yet strung together in a never ending chain that stretched and stretched until nothing could be seen beyond them.
Tristan and Jillian had not talked about the baby since their fight; and perhaps they never would again, but their silence did not erase its existence. The child was right there in Jillian's eyes, between her and Tristan. 'The child?' Tristan stopped abruptly in his tracks, his hand instinctively rising to cover his mouth at the gasp of a realization. 'Not the child,' he thought, 'My child.' For the first time, he felt the protective nature a father feels for his offspring and, at the same time, felt the burning shame of failure flush his cheeks. A father was supposed to keep his child safe from all harm and to protect his child against any danger. He'd failed at that before his child had even entered the world.
So great had been his failure, in fact, that it had been Tarra who found Jillian in the forest and Tarra who had saved the life of the person he loved the most. Jillian and Tarra had formed a bond that night so strong that his opinion of Tarra, no matter how poor, would never be able to break it. Yet, his opinion of Tarra, to his surprise, was not poor, not any longer. When had that happened? "She saved my life," Jillian had said, "I will always love her as a sister even if you don't."
Tristan reached the healing room and grabbed the herbs he needed. As he studied one of the bottles, he made his decision. He would be strong for Jillian's sake. He had to be, and if that meant making an effort to put the past behind him in regards to Tarra, then he would do that as well. He would do battle with the most venomous demons in hell for Jillian's love and, in light of his gift for fighting, one would almost pity those demons for having to face his wrath. His will to survive, his strength, would be enough for both himself and for Jillian---or so he hoped.
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Jillian listened to the creak of the door as Tristan exited the room and then slid her bare feet onto the cold, stone floor. She stepped gingerly over to the window where the rain beat heavily against the ledge. She reached her arm out the window, catching rain drops in the palm of her hand. A roar of thunder rolled across the sky as she breathed in the scent of the rain.
Jillian turned from the window with melancholic eyes that sparkled like the falling drops of rain and slid her garments down her narrow shoulders until they fell to the floor at her ankles. A flash of lightning illuminated the slender silhouette of her naked body. She arched her back and knew herself to be exposed in the most raw and organic sense possible. She let her eyes fall down the front of her body and for first time she perceived her frame that had now grown sickly and frail. She ran her ice cold hands across her jagged ribs that jutted out from beneath her skin and continued running her fingers further down over her flat, empty, and hollow stomach.
A shudder ran through her body as she fell crumpled to the floor. Her head felt as dark and cloudy as the world outside her window. The room spun around her and rattled at the clap of thunder. 'Get up,' she ordered herself under her breath, 'Get. Up.' Jillian slowly lifted her head, her jaw clenched in defiance and tears streaming down her cheeks. Grief would not get the best of her, would not defeat her, would not overcome her. She would be strong for herself and for Tristan, and if that meant not shedding one more single tear, then that was exactly what she would do.
Jillian rose triumphantly to her feet as a bolt of lightning flashed across the sky, flickering down the line of her back. She pulled her garments back over her body and climbed back into bed. Just as she pulled the covers back over her shivering body, the door creaked open and Tristan entered with arms full of bottles of herbs. "How are you?" he asked with concern.
Her face was hard as stone as she replied, "I am fine."
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"Bloody hell!" grunted Bors as he entered the hall, shaking off the rain from his soaked clothing.
The party had barely made it to the tavern when the crack of thunder roared above their heads bringing down buckets of water with it. They therefore decided to move their gathering to the main hall that held Arthur's well renowned round table. The hall was now filled with the other tavern-goers who had followed them in from the storm. Arthur, Tarra, Barak, and the knights congregated in the corner.
"So, Barak Mahal is it? What brings you to Briton?" interrogated Lancelot, moving closer to Tarra's side as though marking his territory.
"Yes," interjected Arthur, a little unsettled by Barak's presence as well, "Tarra's arrival was a surprise in and of itself, so you cannot blame us for being curious as to what circumstances would compel a friend to follow so closely behind."
"Ah, but isn't such a compelling friend as Tarra a circumstance enough?" replied Barak with his usual suaveness that almost matched Lancelot's own well-polished nature except for the malignant undertone that only Tarra seemed to recognize, "Though it would be misleading of me not to add that I came not only for Tarra's good company, but also to relieve her of a burden that appears to still lay so heavily on your shoulders, Arthur."
"On my shoulders?" Arthur asked, furrowing his eyebrows in confusion, "I'm not sure I understand your meaning."
"I'm afraid," interrupted Tarra urgently, "that it is I who has misled you, Barak, and you really needn't have come."
"No, there was no confusion. It's clear that we all have our heads in the right places," Barak protested, putting an amused emphasis on the word 'heads,' "which is exactly why I came, you see, and---"
"No, really! You have misunderstood!" cried Tarra, frantically trying to think of anything to say to keep Barak from leading the conversation further down the present course. "In fact!" she added quickly, "It reminds me of an infamous misunderstanding that the Sultan Arif had with the Sultan of Petra." She did not pause here, but rambled on as Barak gave her a dangerous smile with devious eyes that told her she should not fool herself into thinking she was the one in control.
She tried to ignore him and continued hastily, "You see, on the same day that an old friend of Sultan Arif sent him a new riding camel, the Sultan of Petra's daughter arrived as a diplomatic gift of peace to be taken in marriage by Sultan Arif and to ally him with the Sultan of Petra. Now, Bostra, ruled by Sultan Arif, and Petra had been at odds for many years mostly because Petra is a fertile land of agricultural wealth, while Bostra is a dry and arid land. The main city of Petra is surrounded by a grand wall, much similar to the wall you have here, which is impenetrable by any enemy force. Because of Bostra's continued assaults on Petra, the two cities lived in conflict until Sultan Arif agreed to take the Sultan of Petra's daughter as another one of his many wives in return for a cessation of attacks made against Petra.
"This peace did not last long, however, because Sultan Arif sat down the very next day to write letters of thanks to both his old friend for the camel and to the Sultan of Petra for his daughter. Upon sending those letters out, however, he confused the two pieces of correspondence, sending each letter in the wrong direction and to the wrong recipient. You can imagine the sultan's old friend's dismay at perusing the letter which read, 'You have my deepest thanks for the gift of this endearing creature, which represents all that is beautiful in nature and on which I have bestowed the finest silks and the most comfortable quarters in my palace.' Much greater in abhorrence was the Sultan of Petra's reaction to the letter he received which read, 'Many thanks for your generosity in lavishing upon me such a buxom beast, which I have already had the pleasure of riding twice this afternoon.'"
The knights laughed heartily at Tarra's anecdote, while Barak held steadfast in his menacing grin. He motioned with his eyes for Tarra to meet with him outside of the company of the knights. Barak moved casually away from the gathering with Tarra excusing herself a moment later to follow him. Lancelot trailed them both suspiciously with his eyes. Something was amiss.
"What are you doing here? What do you want?" demanded Tarra, once out of ear-shot from the others.
Barak's social charm had evacuated from his countenance so that he was now stripped down to his natural cold and uncaring disposition. "Not here," he replied, "Meet me in the stables in a quarter of an hour."
"What if I vanish in a quarter of an hour?" Tarra countered, testing the waters to see just exactly what Barak had up his sleeve.
"Then every last one of your newly befriended knights will be dead by the hour's end," he sneered, "And then I will hunt you down and there will be no one to save you from the terror I will wreak upon your worthless existence."
Tarra gulped, "See you in fifteen, then."
Tarra watched Barak stalk out of the hall and then returned to where the knights stood, each giving her a look of puzzlement. They were clearly waiting for an explanation that she was not ready to give. Tarra stood awkwardly in front of them for a moment and then announced, "I---I think I'm going to go check on Jillian."
"I'll go with you," Lancelot offered, advancing towards her.
"No—no!" she protested, "I'd rather go on my own. There are just---girl things---we need to discuss in private. Yes, girl things, and, well, none of you are girls. Although, Gawain does have very long, flowing, girl-like hair. Not that that's a bad thing. I like it. I'm just---babbling. Yes. I should be quiet now. I'm---I'm going to go."
With that eloquent display of verbiage, Tarra quitted the company of the knights and made her way from the hall to the stables. Her heart beat rapidly and her palms were clammy with sweat. Not only did she know now more than ever that she could not fulfill mission, but she also knew that she had to find some way to stop Barak. Perhaps she should go back and warn Arthur, but then, wouldn't that give her away as well as Barak?
There had to be a way she could save Arthur without having to sacrifice herself in the process. She had to think, to formulate a plan. She had never before been in a situation so dire that it could not be escaped with a moment of deliberation, but at that moment, she reached the entrance to the stables. 'Oh well, there's a first for everything,' she thought as she opened the door.