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Chapter 4 ~ Restless

The following days ambled by for Aithne much the same as any other uneventful day in her life – filled as it was, with the usual dose of the banal and the ordinary. The fretful night she had spent after her unsettling encounter with the knight Tristan, was followed the next morning by relief to find that it was Dagonet breaking his fast at Vanora's table. She had seen neither hide nor hair of Tristan since. Aithne knew the pattern of duty would mean that Gawain would take the dawn patrol after Dagonet, so she could allow herself to be at ease for a few more mornings at least, safe in the knowledge he wouldn't be there plaguing her sensitive nature with his intrusive presence. On the other hand, what she hadn't bargained for was his being there to plague her nights…

...Aithne awoke with a gasp, her eyes flying open, searching the darkness. Her hands clutched the neck of her night shift against her bosom, which heaved, rapidly with the thump of her heart against her frame. God's breath! She swore to herself, as recollection of the dreams that had woken her teased the blatant plea of her body, which ached with a longing both delicious and raw. Damn that man!... Why him?

Ashamed and angry, she swiftly wiped away the beads of perspiration that had gathered on her forehead and lip and then, despite the heat of her body, coiled herself up into a ball.

How dare he come a-creeping into her dreams, like that? Was there to be no place to hide from him? She closed her eyes tight, determined to banish him from her mind and replace his ghost with that of her husband. She shifted and turned in her bed, frustrated by the effort, but she could conjure nothing more than a familiar haze of what had once been so vivid and perfect. Was the memory of Heith's delicate, young face fading so swiftly with time that it was forever lost to her? So it would seem, just as the sweet, painful longing which had woken her, faded quickly now with the slowing of her heart. Defeated, Aithne turned her face to the mattress and quietly wept.

...

High up on the battlements, veiled within the darkness, with the wind whistling about him, nipping at his clothes and face - stood Tristan. Feeling restless for sleep and strangely stifled in the confines of his small one roomed shelter, he'd risen from his cot and climbed the ramparts to seek the cleansing touch of the crisp night air and fill his lungs with its delicious taste. It was a cool night, but dry and Tristan welcomed the peace to be found up there at so late an hour.

All was quiet, but for the occasional shuffle of feet and hushed murmurs from the night patrol guards stood at their posts at various points along the wall. Tristan heaved a deep breath, letting it out as he leaned against the cold stone of the parapet in order to gaze down at the courtyard far below. Despite the late hour, there were still torches burning here and there and Tristan could make out the familiar shadows of tavern, stable and armoury. His eyes however settled on the small silhouette of stone which was the bakery, and a vision of the woman who lay within its walls sneaked into his thoughts.

Did she sleep easily this night or was she too, restless in her bed? He wondered if she lay there alone or instead, entwined in the limbs of a lover, their passions sated and content from their lovemaking, which was more than could be said for him.

That blacksmith, perhaps…did he share her nights? Tristan gave a dismissive grunt, surprised by the twinge of resentment the idea gave him. No, not the smithy, he was sure of it, remembering how they had looked together the morning he'd followed her out of the tavern. The morning she'd spilled his wine and soaked her skirts trying desperately to mop it up. Tristan smiled at the memory, remembering it as the first time he'd truly noticed her. It was the eyes that had caught him, staring up at him so huge and terrified as to be almost comical - and of course it did no harm that she carried a tidy figure either. He'd always like a woman with a bit of meat on her bones and she had it in all the right places. He'd been quick to notice that, at least…when he'd finally taken the time to notice her at all.

Tristan smiled to himself again, feeling more at ease now as the restless mood that had brought him out, faded away and inevitably his thoughts began to wander off in more a tantalising direction…Well he was a man after all, wasn't he?

A knowing tug in his breeches soon brought him back to his senses.

Shit! he cursed silently, reaching down to adjust the tender throb a little more comfortably. It served him right, he supposed and it was a sharp reminder that he'd been far too long from the warmth of a wench's body - at least one that he cared to remember, that is! He sighed, feeling tetchy once again. He was never going to get any sleep now.

...

Aithne's father ground his yellow teeth against the deliberate clatter of iron cauldron and ladle. The excruciating noise seared through his aching head like a hot blade through butter, as if determined to cause the utmost discomfort possible. And of course it was, for Aithne was in a foul mood that morning, sleep-deprived and knowingly frustrated as she was. It didn't help her humour that her father had not returned home from the tavern last night and instead had come sidling in all heavy eyes and sheepish, just as Aithne had risen to begin the morning bread-making ritual which was their life.

It was true her father did like a jar or two of an evening and maybe now and again he did spend his night with just a tabletop for a pillow, but never let it be said that he'd ever missed a day's honest work because of it – well, almost never. Besides, he was an amiable drunk and had caused Aithne no real hardship over the years, save worrying that he may do himself a mischief one day. This mood was not usual for his daughter, so maybe then, it was his unfortunate choice of conversation at the breakfast table that was the reason for her sour temper and acidic tongue.

"I'm only suggestin' it's time you thought about gettin' wed again…" Another crash against the porridge pot left him wincing and in no doubt what his daughter thought of that particular suggestion.

"So wot's wrong with him?" Her father persisted "I'm no judge of what you women see as handsome in a man, but I reckon he's the sort many a wench would hanker after"

"Aye, he's handsome alright!" Aithne retorted irritably "And the women do hanker after him! Trouble is, he know's it and is far too fond of puttin' 'em out of their misery for my likin'!"

"Gods woman! Hark at you! So you'd have him a monk and a saint would ya, while you're stood there, as proud and vain as a peacock, tossing his favour back in his face? Y' think you're Cleopatra herself, I swears you do!" Aithne glared across the porridge pot at her father, iron ladle poised in her hand and looking for all as if she were about to fly across the room and hit him with it. "I'm just sayin' daughter, y'in no place to be bein' picky!"

"Thanking you very much for reminding me of that, Da" she spat back, slamming the ladle back into the pot.

"Oh, don't be getting' all hoity-toity with me, you know what I'm saying. Good men are hard to come by, no matter how bonny the lass"

"All the more reason for me not to encourage him, if y'ask me!" She knew she wasn't pretty, but she still had her pride "I've had one good man, I'll not find me another."

"Guyon's a good man!" Aithne threw her father a sardonic look but said nothing. "He is so! He's no lackwit...that's enough to thank the God's for that is! He's young, strong…I'll wager he'll give you fine sons….I grant you, it is said he has a wandering eye for the lasses, but what young lad hasn't?"

Aithne let out an exasperated sigh "He could at least try and keep his fingers out from under every skirt in the village whilst he's sniffin' around at my hems, wouldn't you think!"

"What d'you expects lass, when you're as cold as a winter Coney? T'be sure, he'd settle down if you'd just hearten him on some, you see if he doesn't"

"Hearten him on?... Da, he cares nowt for me…you must see it, for he hides it poorly …he wants nowt else but a comfy life away from the furnaces and it just happens for the nonce, I'm the only woman in the village free to give him that. D'you thinks he'd still snuffle about my ankles if miller's wife suddenly found herself in an empty bed?"

"The god's forgive you for being a temptress of fate, girl!"

"Oh, Da! Give over" She snapped, dismissing his superstitious nonsense angrily as she slopped a ladle full of porridge into a bowl "A man like Guyon brings nowt but misery to a girl like me. Aye, mayhap he'd settle a while at first, but it wouldna be long afore he's casting his eye on prettier maids than me again…" she stopped what she was doing for a moment and then went on, quietly and more thoughtful this time "He'd break my heart, Da…. and I'm not strong enough to bear that again"

Her father said nothing for a moment, guilt nibbling at his heart at the reminder of the grief his daughter had suffered losing the husband she had loved so well. Moreover, not only her husband, Heith but her mother also, and so swiftly after. Aye, the greed of the Gods had been hard to slake that winter that was for sure. He felt the grief sorely himself but he never was a one to share it. He was realistically minded and a practical man and he wanted only what was best for his daughter. He knew he wouldn't be around forever to take care of her.

"I say you judge him ill, child." He persisted stubbornly "Tis only natural for a man to look for reward in wedlock, even poor folk like us… But to say he doesna care for you!" His eyes softened as he went on "how could any man not care for my beautiful girl?"

"Beautiful!" Aithne snorted, not in the least convinced "Da, every daughter's a beauty in their father's eye. Guyon, like any man wanting a wife, doesn't look at me through father's eyes….I'd be fighting lovers off with my ladle if it were otherwise"

"Bah!. You're bein' a fool"

"I'm being truthful"

"You'll die a lonely old crone!"

"Then, so be it! Now eat y'porridge!"

...

Late that afternoon, satisfied that all her chores of the day were in order, Aithne had grabbed an apple, wrapped her mantle across her shoulders and set out on her way towards a meadow that lay in the shadows of Badon hill. Her father had already ambled his way back over to the tavern with promises that he wouldn't tarry so long there.

'Just a jar or two, sweeting' he'd said as he was leaving 'a pitcher or two, more like'' Aithne had thought to herself, relenting to the fact that it wasn't worth wasting her breath saying so out loud. The truth was, she found it hard to scold him for one of the few pleasures he had. He was a good man, he worked hard - he deserved a little something to look forward to at the end of a hard days graft.

Just a short stretch through a forest which edged the meadow and a leap across a small stream, there was to be found a quiet little copse. There stood an oak tree so old that it took three people, arms out stretched and fingertips touching, to circle its enormous body. This was Aithne's place. A place where she and Heith had spent endless hours playing together as children. A place of happy memories, comfort and peace.

It was for the much needed solace of this sanctuary, that Aithne sort to venture there this afternoon, but much to her annoyance, it was to evade her just a while longer, as Guyon had accosted her on her way towards the courtyard gates. Word had arrived that the merchant ships had docked at the harbour town of Arbeia about eight miles to east of the Badon Fort. The markets there would be bursting with life and Guyon, like most who were able to, would be hurrying along there in order to have the pick of the best provisions before it was shipped inland to the surrounding towns and forts. As the old Smithy's apprentice and general dog's body, he of course was charged with the task of travelling to the harbour markets in the morning, to select and barter for the family's supplies. Seeing it as the perfect opportunity to manoeuvre time alone with Aithne at last, he had wasted no breath in seeking her out to persuade her to accompany him.

"Come on, Aithne…would you just consider it?" his voice was deep, slow and as smooth as honey "There's none I'd rather share the day with."

Aithne smiled up into the dark lashed, crystal blue eyes that sparkled down at her so persuasively. It would be so easy to believe he truly did desire her company more than he desired anybody else's and at times, it was a struggle for her not to be swept away, so convincing was he. His devastatingly charming smile could test the Christ's mother herself, when he had a mind to do so. The only thing that saved her from finding her neck in the snare was that practical side of her nature bestowed on her by her father. She had always believed herself lacking the beauty that wins the eye of handsome devils like Guyon and therefore how could he be true? That was the fortune – or perhaps misfortune – of girls with eyes as clear as rock pools, hair the colour of summer wheatfields and smiles that dazzled like the sun. Aithne considered her autumn eyes too dull, her brown hair too wild and her shy smile too awkward.

"Oh Guyon, I really don't think..."

"I promise to behave" he interrupted smoothly, his body leaning relaxed against the storehouse wall, long black hair swathed across his shoulders in attractive disarray, lips smiling lazily down at her.

Aithne groaned inwardly. She hated that look, he could melt her with it if he tried just a little harder and the gods help her if he ever realised it. Not to mention the fact that she was sorely tempted by the prospect of visiting the harbour. A place she had only been but a few times in her life and would love so much to see again. Nevertheless, to accept his invitation, she knew would be unfair to him and perhaps not the wisest of choices for her.

"I'm sorry, it wouldna be fitting…me being a widow an' you unattached. People would get to talking and..."

Guyon laughed, trying to stifle a hint of impatience in his tone. It was always the same tired, old excuses.

"Would that be so bad..." leaning closer, "…honestly?" he reached out a finger to sweep it gently across her cheek but Aithne flinched back, purely on instinct.

Guyon masked a frown with another slow smile, but he could not hide the flash of coldness, which touched his eyes. Aithne coloured, embarrassed by her hasty rejection. She opened her lips to apologise but then caught his fleeting look. It reminded her once again, why she was right to keep the distance between them.

"Forgive me, sweeting… I meant no offence" his enticing mask now back in place, he moved away slightly, giving her space "I lost all propriety, but you make that so easy to do."

Aithne tensed at the endearment and lowered her head, not wanting him to read her thoughts. If only he meant it, if only he didn't…

"I'll not be able to settle if you don't forgive me" he grinned, teasing her good-naturedly now as if the wound from her minor rebuff had never been. He was about to reach out and raise her chin and then thought better of it.

He was such a confusing man, Aithne believed she knew his motives but his thoughts, that seem to change direction so quickly and so often like a swift in flight, were so difficult to unravel.

Aithne could do little more than what was being asked of her.

"Guyon, there's nothing to forgive...you..." Aithne's voice trailed away to a whisper as she looked up.

There coming towards them, on the back of a large grey stallion, was Tristan. It seemed to Aithne he was staring directly at her, and in a most inappropriate and arrogant manner. Immediately, memories of that which had woken her last night leapt into her thoughts, rendering her powerless to stop the heat soaring to her cheeks.

Suddenly realising he no longer had her attention, Guyon glanced over his shoulder, following the trail of her eyes. He caught sight of the knight immediately and his eyes darkened. He turned back to Aithne, scrutinising her closely. She had pinked somewhat and dropped her eyes again. Guyon's own grew darker still and he tensed as he felt his hackles begin to rise to the scent of another wolf on the prowl.

Aithne could feel the stallion passing so close now and the dark honey eyes of its rider burnt her. She gave a nervous cough, gathering the courage to meet them again.

By the Gods, what a sight he was up there - straight backed and stoical faced, the breeze whispering through his long hair, revealing a face perfectly carved, sun-kissed and rugged. Dark ornate flashes sweeping high on each cheekbone. A full lipped, down turned mouth framed by untidy silver-tipped whiskers. A bedraggled vision of primitive male beauty - dangerous, frightening, entrancing. There could be no denying it; For whatever reason it may be, he quite simply stole her breath away.

He once again greeted her with a single nod, trapping her in a gaze that sparkled with challenge... slight me again if you dare!

How could she dare? Aithne inclined her head in reply. When she looked back up at him, he was no longer looking at her, but straight ahead, expression unreadable as if their exchange had never been. However, a curl glimmered at the corner of his mouth. She could swear it.

Aithne's heart pounded along with the slow, heavy rhythm of the stallion's hooves as they faded away.

Guyon pushed himself up from the wall, staring past Aithne, watching the knight ride on through the bustling courtyard and then disappear out of the gateway. He felt a sickening throb festering deep down inside.

"Aithne" he growled slowly "Stay away from him"