This is a simple chapter, inspired in small part by one of my most favourite scenes in period drama - thanks to the gorgeous and wonderful Toby Stephens for that!
Thanks to all for reading and/or reviewing as always. xxx
Chapter 6 – Hunger
The Sarmatian knight and the baker's daughter sat either side of a crudely built spit and fire, looking out across the stream to the trees beyond. She, quiet and cross-legged on one side. He, body out-stretched, one boot over the other, leaning upon one elbow on the other side, saying nothing much else in return.
Tristan could still sense her tension, despite her agreeing to stay but then maybe she had only done so because she had been too afraid to refuse him. Had it been a polite request or a veiled demand, finely woven in that subtle, non-negotiable way of his? Tristan honestly could not be sure either way, but he wasn't going to trouble himself over minor details. He had wanted her here and here she was.
He had tried a few genial lines to draw her out from time to time, but not being particularly versed in the art of polite conversation, there was only so much he could do with the mostly monosyllabic answers he was given in return and so eventually, he had grown as silent as she. If the woman didn't want to talk to him, fine. Silence was no hardship to him, he was perfectly at home with silence. The constant nervous fidgeting of her fingers, on the other hand, was a different matter.
Aithne swore the nails on her fingertips would bleed if she picked at them any longer. She was trying to relax, she really was, but he'd not spoken a word to her for the longest time now and she imagined he must surely be regretting wasting his supper on such tedious company as hers. She could think of not one single thing to say that might interest a man like him and she was growing desperate…and very hungry...the longer the silence stretched on. She was having a difficult enough time as it was just trying to grasp how she had ended up sat here, sharing supper with a man who just a short while ago had had her in a hysterical state and convinced his sole intention was to attack and defile her. He had chased her down, torn her skirts, even slapped her face and now here he was cooking her food. The odd thing of it all was that she was happy for it!
She couldn't explain why, but despite all the months she had spent recoiling from him, right at this moment, she was exactly where she wanted to be. If only she was able to summon the courage to find her voice and share a little banter with him, then maybe she could relax a little and enjoy the company more.
Aithne shivered, the afternoon sun was beginning to fade behind the hills and had brought forth a chill in the air that reminded all that summer had not yet arrived. She wouldn't be able to tarry too much longer here or she would miss the twilight curfew when the fortress gates would be closed and locked until dawn. It wouldn't be the first time in her life she had spent a night curled up under a hawthorn bush in the forest due to her tardiness and so the prospect was not a particularly tempting one.
She glanced over towards her mantle, discarded in a heap beneath the oak tree along with her sandals and contemplated going to fetch it. Still a little shy of her companion though, she remained where she was, deciding that the heat from the pit fire would have to suffice.
Aithne sighed quietly and stole a glance at Tristan from the corner of her eye. She chewed at her bottom lip a while, deciding it was high time she stopped being so bloody spineless and spoke to the man, just as the tantalising aroma of the spit-roast rabbit filled her nostrils and enticed a ravenous rumble from Aithne's insides.
Oh, no…how could you! She winced, thoroughly embarrassed. She discreetly clutched at her waist, desperate to stop it happening again and prayed the shameful noise had not reached Tristan.
"Hungry?" he asked over his shoulder, grinning to himself behind his whiskers.
"Aye, a little" Aithne flushed, smiling sheepishly "...you have the ears of a bat, I swear!"
Tristan sat up, looked over at his companion and smiled, leaning towards the spit and giving it a quarter turn as he did so. It was the first fully formed sentence she had spoken to him since the fire had been lit; he hoped it wasn't to be the last.
"I'd be a poor scout if I didn't" he replied shuffling himself round to face her now, his eyes discreetly exploring her shapely form as he did so.
"'Appen you would, Sir" Aithne said, frantic for something else to say as she felt another growl threatening. She added quickly "So, how is it you're still here, then? Did y'nay have a hankering for home when Rome deserted us?"
"Home...?" he asked as if surprised by her question "this is my home."
'Good grief' Tristan thought, 'she's actually managed to string more than three words together all on her own', He liked that even if, as he suspected, she spoke only to cover up the sound of her hunger pangs. Anything was better than nothing.
"I love this land, why would I want to leave it? I've bled for it for the last 18 years. …and like as not I'll bleed for it again, should those Saxons fancy their chances once more"
A sudden compassion flowed through Aithne as the certainty of those words sank in. The thought of this man beside her wounded and bleeding flowed through her heart and caused her a bolt of actual physical pain, shocking her with its intensity. Eighteen long years…that was a lifetime for some, she thought. Bloodshed, war, death - the horrors he must have seen…the horrors he must have committed.
Tristan felt the mood change and swiftly decided it was time to eat. He pulled off a hot crispy leg joint, tossing it quickly hand to hand to cool it down. When sufficiently cooled, he handed it to Aithne who thanked him gratefully, so ravenous was she by now.
He did the same again for himself and then shifting places; he got up, walked around the fire pit and settled himself down shoulder to shoulder beside a somewhat surprised Aithne.
The most delightful warmth caressed her through leather and linen where their bodies now touched and she found herself startlingly aware of him. However, she did not recoil; she had no wish to.
"That blacksmith..." Tristan asked after a while, plucking Aithne's thoroughly picked rabbit bone from her fingers and flinging it into nearby bushes along with his own. "…you his woman?"
"Nay! Not me!" Aithne almost choked at the thought. "If I was, I'd not be sat here with you!" Aithne blushed furiously, realising how suggestive her words sounded.
Tristan grunted thoughtfully but seemed not to notice "He seems…keen for it to be so" Aithne let out a mildly frustrated sigh, to which he added, "You think not?"
"Keen to swap soot for flour mayhap...tis not I that tempts him, I'm certain."
Tristan eyed her intently, "How so?"
Aithne shook her head regretfully "you think a man as fine-looking as Guyon, would really give an eye to me...? I am no fool; I know how much he hates that furnace and I know I'm no beauty"
"You're not?" Tristan asked, leaning closer as if he were searching for evidence of her declaration.
Aithne cast him a hesitant glance, expecting his eyes to betray the air of mockery that she failed to hear in his voice. She could fathom nothing from the warm ochre eyes that watched her closely and so chose not to answer.
"Shouldn't wenches like you be long married at your age…hampered down by a growing brood of wailing pups?" he asked suddenly, invoking memories for Aithne which stung sharply "How old are you, any way?"
"Many summers less than you, I'll wager…judgin' by the looks of ya! " she snapped back with defensive haughtiness, only to find herself instantly sorry for it, for she realised quickly that his words had not been meant as an impertinent quip. His eyes told her he was merely curious and most likely unaware of her loss. She cringed, waiting for the affront that would surely follow, but Tristan gave only a dispassionate grunt.
"Well I'm younger than I look and older than I feel…" he muttered lazily "…that's army life for you"
Despite the casual reply, he seemed a little piqued, but Aithne couldn't be sure. She considered an apology, but relieved as she was not to be facing his umbrage for her blunder, she decided to say no more on the subject and let the sleeping dogs lie.
After a short while, Tristan lay down, threading his fingers behind his head as he stared up into the clouds, seemly lost in his own private thoughts. Aithne felt the loss of his warmth keenly.
"He's not so fine-looking anyway," Tristan protested quietly, a moment later.
Aithne frowned, looking over her shoulder at the outstretched Tristan beside her.
"Who?" she asked, puzzled "…Guyon?"
"Aye…and he can't shoe a horse for shit."
A brief silence followed and then Aithne suddenly burst into fits of laughter, a most welcome sound to Tristan's ears.
"What?" Tristan asked all feigned innocence, whilst sitting himself back up. He missed the touch of her shoulder next to his and had considered pulling her gently down beside him, but then thought better of it. He did not want to press his luck and end up scaring her off for good.
"Have y'any notion how peevish that sounds?" she laughed, blithely gripping his sleeve as she twisted around to look at him.
"Tis nowt but the truth" he defended, with a nonchalant shrug and a smile.
Did she realise when she turned to look at him like that, he could feel the full ripeness of her breast against his arm? He glanced at the small hand with it's nervously picked-at-nails that lay upon his arm… don't let go… then his eyes lifted to her full-lipped mouth, still laughing, rose-hue lips glistening. Was it just his wishful imagination or was that mouth asking to be kissed?
He wanted to touch her so badly it hurt, this mouth-wateringly warm, curvaceous body that sat temptingly close to his own, with its mossy green toes and unremarkable legs that he so wanted to see again and even more so, to feel wrapped around him. What were his chances? Was she ready for him yet? Dare he venture that far to find out?
Shit his breeches were coming to life and it was as uncomfortable as hell. Thank the gods they were so tight and his tunic long, or else he would never get away with it.
Torturing himself more, his eyes roamed her shapely form. Her body was pure temptress, but her face all innocence. What was he thinking? More to the point what was he doing? He told himself this was wrong. She was wrong for him, he wrong for her, but then why did it feel so right?
The longest silence fell between them and the air filled with a delicious, uncertain tension, the only sound that of the cool evening breeze which whispered through the trees. Aithne shivered again and slipped her hand from his sleeve.
"Tis time I should be goin'," she murmured regretfully, standing up and rubbing the tops of her arms for warmth. "I thank y' for the supper. Twas kind of you."
Tristan quickly followed and stood before her, absently dusting off the seat of his breeches as he searched for something to say, caught short as he was by her sudden and unexpected farewell. He didn't want her to go but what could he do, save try to prolong the inevitable.
"Twas nowt..."he shrugged dismissively, glancing at her through his long untidy locks and scratching casually at his whiskered chin. She caught his eye and held it and then they were quiet once again. They regarded each other tentatively for a few moments, as if one were waiting for permission to leave and the other were unwilling to grant it. The silence stretched on, awkwardness beginning to simmer beneath it and when Aithne shivered again, Tristan spotted his chance.
"You're cold" Tristan muttered quickly, and strode towards the oak tree to retrieve her mantle.
A few hasty strides and he was back. Allowing Aithne not a moment for protest, he swung the woollen cloak about her shoulders and gripping it tightly either side he pulled her close towards him. He felt her straining from him but did not let go.
Aithne looked up, wide-eyed and unsure what to do. Her initial instinct was to pull away, but she soon found herself unable to resist the inviting warmth of the body pressed so intimately to her own and yielded. It felt strangely right; just where she belonged, as she slowly relaxed against the embrace. They held each other's gaze once again as the silence lingered. Her heart quickened, her senses sparked and ignited, the musky smell of him deliciously tempting. She swallowed, wanting more and yet terrified to recognise it.
The unspoken moment stretched on as they continued simply to stare at one another. Tristan seemed neither prepared to act, nor yet let her go and she could bear it no longer.
Do something, damn you she silently begged him, for she knew she could not, but he did nothing save hold her tight.
Tristan swore he could taste her. He breathed deeply, recognising the feminine scent that whispered secrets to his primitive male instincts and sent them reeling. Just standing there, she was driving him slowly beyond his limits of endurance. Did she even know it? By the gods if he suspected for one moment she was wantonly offering herself he would take her now, he swore it. But those dark, innocent eyes wanted so much more in return. He would have to break this spell soon or she would be paying the consequences and no one would blame him.
"Sir," she whispered hoarsely "I must go...it grows dark...the curfew...I'll not get to the gates in time..."
"Curfew?" He frowned, still holding her tightly against him. Should the big bad wolf let the innocent fawn run free? The big, bad, old wolf, he corrected ruefully...he was actually rather pissed off by that thought. Did she honestly think him old? The cheeky mare!
"Please sir!" Her whisper asked for freedom, but he knew her eyes and her body did not.
However, this was not a woman who gave herself easily and yet it would be just that for him….easy. Just a gentle caress, a kiss, an enticing word and she would be his.
We'll see who she considers 'old' then! He thought a little peevishly. And what after that, you egotistic bastard? You just walk away?
Did he honestly believe he could satisfy his lust and then just walk away? This was no whore whose only thought was for the coin. Nor a predacious Roman officer's wife who cared only to slake her own carnal desires neglected by a long absent husband. She was a simple woman, with a simple heart and he would shatter it if he used her the way he used most all women. What she expected from a lover, he did not possess to give her. Was that not the reason he had spent his life avoiding tenderhearted wenches like this one?
If there were ever a time he needed a conscience, it was now.
"You're right, what are y'thinkin' tarrying here so long." he growled suddenly, pushing her from him and abruptly turning away "Get off home" he snapped over his shoulder as he strode off to his horse.
Stunned, mortified and unquestionably abandoned, Aithne just stared at the knight now retreating into the trees towards his waiting mount. He neither slowed his pace nor looked back at her. She wanted to call out to him but could not. The brusque dismissal reeked of rejection and she had not the strength of character to face it. The gods above but what had she done to offend him so? Confounded shame gathered painfully at her throat in the form of a sob, but she fought it back with every ounce of spirit she could muster. What should she do…what could she do? Turning away, she grabbed her sandals and fled through the trees towards home, letting the tears that stung her eyes flow free and tumble down her cheeks.