I've made a few minor edits to the first chapter after I realized some gaping plot holes. Though, I suppose like any romantic drivel, the plot only serves the purpose of keeping the characters occupied while they're not falling in love with each other (haha, only kidding...maybe). Anyways, here's the next chapter!
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The rapping of a fist that pounded hard against Jillian's door caused the hinges to rattle against the frame. At the startling sound, Jillian perked up her head from beneath a pile of manuscripts that lay scattered across her bed. She waded frantically through the papery grave in which she had buried herself, quickly brushing her hair out of her face and tucking it behind her ears to make herself more presentable. "Come in!" she called to her unexpected visitor.
The door swung open, revealing Bors' stout figure barging through the entryway. Jillian observed immediately the agitated and seemingly morose expression that marked his face before noticing the tray that he held in his hands. Vanora, out of the kindness of her heart and despite her own three sick children, had remembered to stop by Jillian's room each morning to bring her breakfast since she was supposed to be confined to bed rest. By the sight of the tray that Bors now held in his hands, however, Jillian ascertained that he had apparently taken over that job today.
"Is everything okay?" Jillian asked with concern as the afflicted Bors set the tray down on her bed, "I hope the children haven't gotten any worse…"
"Children? Oh, the little bastards. No, they're doing alright," he replied seeming somewhat distracted. Jillian opened her mouth as though about to make an interjection when Bors suddenly blurted out, "It's not them; it's me! I can't take it anymore! I'm going insane!"
"What? Why? What happened?"
"I must have been crazy. I must have been out of my mind. How did I let that damn woman---"
"Vanora?"
"---yes, Vanora. How did I let her talk me into staying here? I'm bloody stuck in this gods-forsaken place going out of my mind while everyone else is off gallivanting on a mission---which is exactly where I should be!"
"Bors," said Jillian level-headedly, "The children have been terribly ill and you know very well Vanora needs you here. You're doing your duty as a father by staying."
"And I'm neglecting my duty as a loyal knight to Arthur in the process," he bellowed in agitation, "Besides, number three is practically well already. I always liked that one---number three."
"Praise the gods! That is wonderful news! I am so glad to hear of his recovery," Jillian exclaimed in relief.
"Right, yes, it's very good, but in the mean time," Bors ranted, "Vanora won't give me a moment's rest. I finish doing what she asks of me, sit down, and put my feet up for one second and already she's nagging at me to do something else. I can't take it anymore. It's gotten to the point where I only think I'm hearing her obnoxious voice. It's in my head, ringing in my ears, grating on me, and when I respond, it turns out she hasn't said anything at all. Of course, my response only reminds her of my presence and once again, I'm assigned another ridiculous household chore. I just really need to kill something right now. Anything. I'm a warrior. I don't do this womanly housework business. It will be the end of me---and that's why you must grant me this favor. Please. You must."
"Of course, you have but to ask," said Jillian sweetly in compliance.
"Hide me!" he pleaded.
"Hide you?" she repeated in consternation.
"Yes, this is the last place Vanora'd look for me. I swear I can't take it any longer. Just let me stay here for today. I promise I won't disrupt---whatever it is you're doing---what are you doing?" he asked, taking note with curiosity of the papers spread across her bed.
"They're manuscripts on healing," Jillian explained, laughing warmly at Bors' emotional state that had quickly shifted from the bleakest desperation to childlike inquisitiveness. "Here," she offered, tossing one of the pamphlets over to the knight, "Maybe that will hold your attention."
Bors caught the manuscript with his rough, weathered hands and took a seat in the corner, pretending to peruse the pamphlet's contents. Jillian eyed the food sitting on the tray that Bors had brought her, considered it intently for a moment, but at last decided that she wasn't hungry and pushed it away. Bors observed her from over the top of the manuscript that he held up to his face and shook his head in disgust.
"Don't you think for a second I'm going to let you get away with that, missy," he warned, "You look like a stick with clothing hanging off of it. You need to eat something."
Jillian shrugged her shoulders indifferently. "I'm not hungry," she replied plainly.
"Hungry or not, either you eat that food voluntarily or I'll come over there and shove it down your throat. Don't think I won't," he threatened.
Jillian rolled her eyes. "I thought your entire reason for being here was to get away from babysitting," she muttered.
"It is," he affirmed, "which is why, for my sake at least, you need to stop acting like a damned child picking at your food."
Jillian let out a sigh of resignation. Clearly, Bors was not going to bend on this issue. Jillian pulled the tray up onto her lap and began nibbling on a piece of bread. She felt, without the gratification most experience from nourishment, the portion of bread roll around in her mouth as she painstakingly willed her jaw in the motion of chewing. She then gave a hard swallow, forcing the food down into her stomach that was twisted into knots.
"There!" said Bors with self-satisfaction, "Now, that's better." He turned his attention complacently back to the manuscript he was pretending to read.
"Bors," Jillian interrupted, "You're holding it upside-down."
"Of course! I knew that!" he insisted obstinately, "Reading right side up is just too easy for me, that's all. I get bored without a challenge."
"Right, of course. That makes perfect sense," Jillian responded, trying to stifle a smile that tickled the sides of her mouth. Bors seemed satisfied that he had her convinced, but the second she turned away, he quickly flipped the paper around so that it was right side up.
Meanwhile, Jillian once again buried herself in the written word, which to others would probably have seemed dreadfully dull, but she found relief in her ability to escape into the depths of her own concentration on the material. As long as she kept her mind occupied, as long as she kept on reading, as long as she kept herself distracted, the thoughts that she was trying so hard to escape would remain repressed and she could breathe. That's all that mattered. She had to breathe, one breath at a time.
But like the ocean tide, the banished thoughts always came flooding back, engulfing the shore of her consciousness. Soon, the words blurred together on the page in front of her and she fell between the dark lines into the endless white, suddenly finding herself in the memory of lying on the bank of the river with Tristan's strong arms wrapped tightly around her.
She remembered that night vividly because it was the first time they had made love and the first time she learned the kind of elation that could make the earth rumble and shake. Yes, that night the ground had awoken in a violent fury of life and passion, rocking beneath them as though it were about to burst. Then there was stillness as they lay silently in each others' arms, their lungs breathing and their hearts beating in unison.
Afterwards, she had let out a sigh of contentment and looked over at her clothes that lay in a bundle on the ground next to her. A mischievous thought crossed her mind and she reached discreetly into one of the pockets, pulling out the container that held the extracts of woad, a plant that her people used to paint themselves for war. She deviously dipped her finger into the translucent blue substance and then executed her ambush, swiftly running her painted finger down the bridge of Tristan's nose leaving a bright blue stain. She giggled gleefully at the success of her attack, while Tristan rubbed his nose frantically trying to remove the dye.
"Ugh, this stuff smells!" he exclaimed in both surprise and disgust. Then, grasping at her arms to steal the paint away from her out of fear of a second attack, he demanded playfully, "Alright, you little mercenary, hand it over."
Jillian's stifled giggles erupted into laughter as she hid the dye behind her back, away from his reach. They struggled, rollicking as such for several minutes with Jillian rolling around trying to keep the container out of his grasp and Tristan snatching at her evasive movements. Finally, Tristan had her pinned on her stomach and removed the dye container from her hand as she wriggled beneath him in blithe protest.
"Okay! Okay! I surrender!" she cried between spurts of laughter.
"Not until I have my revenge," he replied, feigning a menacing tone. Jillian ceased her struggling beneath him as she suddenly felt his soft fingertips run along her bare shoulder blades, tracing an undistinguishable outline with the blue woad dye. The lightness of his touch made her hair stand up on end. She held her breath as his fingers slid along her smooth skin in waves and swirls.
When he had finally finished with his artwork, he whispered softly in her ear, "Now you have wings."
Jillian could still feel his hot breath on her cheek as she now sat cross-legged in her bed, staring blankly at the page she held in her hands. How she longed for that heat of his breath now. How she yearned for his voice, his touch. The memory of that night lingered in her mind for it was that night that together they had created a life that had all too soon been stolen away in the volatility caused by nature's fickleness. Now she could only sit and ruminate over the loss of the product of her and Tristan's love and, worse, lament the current absence of that love when she needed it the most. Why had she driven him away? Why had she demanded that he leave on that mission? She was a foolish woman full of regrets.
Jillian's self-castigation was cut short by Guinevere who at that moment burst through the door. Bors and Jillian looked up from their reading, wide-eyed and startled at Guinevere's sudden intrusion. The queen's face had turned white in a state of stupor, the source of which remained a mystery to the two who sat observing her shock.
Guinevere was quick in informing them of the unfolding events, however, as she announced in a voice that shook with dismay, "They're---they're invading. The Saxons---they're outside the wall---an entire army." It was at that moment that the three present in Jillian's room heard the ominous, yet all too familiar, beating of the Saxon drums that echoed through the fort as a formally voiced threat of what was to come. The drums thumped in a slow, daunting rhythm, but the hearts of Jillian, Guinevere, and Bors pounded rapidly, giving five beats for every one beat of the drums.
The crack of Jillian's voice interrupted the hostile percussion, "Do we have a plan?"
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Arthur, Tarra, and the knights had landed on the shore of the northern France coastline and were currently making their way on horseback down a forest trail. "Alright, now, remember to keep the arrow level with your mouth," instructed Galahad who was teaching---or attempting to teach---Tarra the art of the unmatched Sarmatian bow.
"That should be a hard enough feat, seeing as her mouth never remains still for more than a mere second at most," muttered Tristan in amusement.
"Shut up, I'm trying to concentrate," replied Tarra, absorbed in her handling of the beautifully crafted bow. She did as Galahad ordered, keeping the arrow level with her mouth, and pulled back on the string. Unfortunately her horse chose at that very moment to rear and shake its head causing the arrow to slip from Tarra's fingers and whiz past Arthur's head, missing his ear only by a couple of centimeters.
Arthur whipped his head around and glared at them, his face hot with rage. "Galahad!" he roared, "Get that thing away from her before she kills somebody!" Galahad blushed in embarrassment as he retrieved the bow from Tarra who hung her head in disappointment at her failure.
"Don't worry," teased Gawain with a laugh, "If we really thought you could manage to kill something with that bow, we'd let you keep it."
"I still can't believe you've been trained in every form of weaponry except archery," commented Galahad in awe.
"It's simple, really. Carrying around bows and arrows is just not conducive to the stealthy maneuvers I've been required to perform in my line of work," explained Tarra, "They're too bulky."
"I've managed just fine," contended Tristan who was renowned for the furtiveness with which he navigated the land undetected.
"Yes, but you have only to stalk past trees that have no perception of your exposed weapons," Tarra refuted, "whereas in Rome the trees are not trees, but multitudes of citizens capable not only of perceiving such exhibited weaponry but also of drawing conclusions about your purposes and intentions for carrying those devices. No, you may find your bow to your advantage, but I only find use in weapons that I can conceal."
Her point was well taken, and Tristan said nothing more on the matter. Galahad, however, continued the conversation as he inquired, "Did you enjoy Rome? Arthur used to describe it as a magnificent place, though he'd never actually been there himself."
"I hated it," Tarra stated bluntly.
"Why?" Galahad asked with a light laugh at her candidness.
"Rome is a very crowded place," she explained, "There are way too many people---Roman people, for that matter---running around for my comfort."
"You said you lived the first ten years of your life with the gypsies. Why didn't you just stay with them then, if you don't mind my asking?" pursued Galahad.
"I was raised by the gypsies, but I was never one of them," Tarra answered thoughtfully, "I suppose I left because I wanted to find a place where I belonged. I certainly did not find that place in Rome over those many years, but I do think I was close to finding it in Arabia with the Sultan Arif during the past two years. That was the first time I ever experienced what it felt like to be part of a family---even if it was only a con and fabrication."
"Well, perhaps we can be your family now," suggested Galahad sincerely.
Tarra laughed. "Oh, Galahad, your sentimentality never ceases to disgust me," she teased. Then, noticing his blush, she added, "But it would be an honor."