A huge thanks to everyone for all your support and for your constructive and much appreciated comments.
Again this chapter follows immediately on from the last.
Chapter 8 - Thoughts and Promises
The evening grew late but the ale and song still flowed at the tavern. Although the same could not be said of the atmosphere at Tristan's table, where the ale may well have flowed in abundance, but there was certainly no evidence of merry song to accompany it. At least, not since Galahad passed into inebriated oblivion.
Beside a distinctly solemn Tristan, the young knight lay sprawled, cheek down upon the tabletop, with a half empty mug of ale precariously wedged between the fingers and thumb of an unconscious hand and a small slaver of slobber pooling at the corner of his distorted lips. The only conversation he offered was the whistle of deep, heavy breaths through his teeth and an occasional incoherent mumble or grunt.
Galahad, celebrating a rare and princely win at Jactus, had (not surprisingly) been well in his cups by early evening and had lost his battle with consciousness some time ago, which suited Tristan's tetchy humour just fine for he was in no mood for conversation. Besides, Galahad's incessant crowing over his victory had been slowly but surely straining Tristan's usually inexhaustible control. He'd been but a hair's breadth from punching the swagger from Galahad's face when, lucky for Galahad, he finally succumbed to the copious amount of ale he'd supped and fell forward into intoxicated slumber with a thump.
Relieved, Tristan had relaxed - but only marginally. In truth, he was still stinging from Aithne's abrupt dismissal earlier on. She had wounded his pride and, (though more reluctant to confess it) she had wounded him and he could make no sense of it.
Sat with feet upon the table, one ankle across the other, slouched low in his chair with his whiskered chin resting on his chest, Tristan quietly drank his ale whilst scowling through his shaggy mane at the table across the way.
He'd been watching Aithne's father ever since that blacksmith, Guyon had returned an hour or so ago and it didn't escape Tristan's notice that he held the look of a man well spent as he had sauntered lazily up the baker's table. For a while, Tristan mused lightly over what the man had been up to, only to find himself then plagued by a more murky petulance than he already nursed, as thoughts connecting to Aithne came to mind. He shrugged off that notion as best he could, reasoning with himself that she had no eye for that tall, fine-looking young buck….she'd told him so herself, hadn't she?
But even if she did have a fancy for the bloke, why the hell should he care, anyway? Tristan took another long, pensive gulp of ale. He knew the answer to that more than he cared to admit - so what was he going to do about it?
The knight's scowl darkened as he continued to examine what he had unwittingly begun to think of as a rival. He got the feeling Guyon was distinctly aware of what lay in his own peripheral vision and that he himself was being scrutinised just as closely.
"Y'wanna go someplace, Tristan?" purred a husky voice suddenly, teasing his ear with tongue and teeth. So absorbed in his thoughts was he, the proposition had caught Tristan quite unawares. Surprised, he turned his eye swiftly to the hefty, buxom wench who had approached unseen and was now leaning over him.
Normally, one glance at that deliciously large bosom spilling from the confines of the loosely laced bodice and thrust so wantonly in his face, would have had him up and off behind the stables in an instant. Instead he snapped.
"Do I look as if I do?" surprising himself with the bolt of annoyance he felt at the woman's intrusion.
"My, my Tris! aren't we the moody 'un?" she crooned with a lascivious pout, curling an arm about his neck and slipping a probing hand down the front of his shirt, caressing the rise and fall of solid muscle as her fingers journeyed towards his breeches. "I knows wot you be needing…"
"Clear off, woman" he snarled, angry at her persistence and more than aware of the hawk-eyed glance that flickered in his direction.
The woman released him immediately, the sultry temptress act diminishing with a nonchalant sneer "suit yerself." She chirped, unconcerned by the rejection. She gave a quick glance at the inebriated youth lying splayed across the table top and decided instantly there was no business to be had there, either. So, with a thwarted sigh and a shake of her head, she took herself and her abundant attributes off to find a more obliging customer.
Tristan settled himself back in his chair and raised his mug, drinking slowly as he returned his attention back to perusing the smithy's apprentice sat with the baker.
Tristan frowned behind the rim of his mug as he drank; wanting to catch the pale blue eyes that he was sure returned the scrutiny just as covertly and was annoying him more and more to know it.
Guyon leant forward on his elbow, ale in his hand, long black hair hanging forward, shrouding a face deep in conversation. Whatever they spoke of, it was more than a passing of the time or a tale between friends. The baker's face looked worse for drink but he was obviously trying hard to listen intently. He seemed to hesitate, slowly comprehending whatever it was being asked of him. Then with a grin, he nodded in agreement. Guyon sat back suddenly, black hair sweeping over his shoulders to reveal sharp, handsome features and there it was; he knew he had been right.
Cool, ice blue eyes met fiery ochre ones and unperturbed, Guyon held the exchange for a moment long enough for Tristan to get the definite sense of unspoken challenge. Guyon turned back to Aithne's father and stood up, reaching out to shake his hand, a crooked, triumphant smile curled upon his lips as he walked away. He looked well pleased with himself and Tristan didn't like it one bit.
Tristan would have got up and gone after him, such was the shocking stab of bitterness Guyon's insolent look had invoked. However, his uncharacteristic recklessness was steadied by the perfectly timed arrival of Gawain. Tristan resented the intrusion for only a brief moment. He wasn't in the habit of making a fool of himself, which most likely he would have done had he caught up with the man and he was soon grateful to Gawain for his unintentional interception.
Greeting Tristan with a nod, Gawain sat himself down, ruffling Galahad's still unconscious head as he did so. Galahad groaned and then began to snore.
Gawain grinned, reaching over to take the wavering mug from his hand and placed it safely out of reach. "I'd not like to trade places with him come mornin' "he laughed and then noticing his friend's surly frown he added "you seem pensive this evening Tristan. What ails you, my friend?"
Tristan dismissed the question with a brusque grunt, drained his ale, grabbed the pitcher and filled his mug back up.
Gawain chuckled again as he filled up his own mug, amused by Tristan's typically obstinate refusal to impart a confidence.
"There's two things in this world that drive a man to drink." Gawain smiled, cocking a sceptical brow at Tristan "Guilt and women, it's usually one or t'other…So, what have you done this time, Tristan?"
Tristan threw him a warning glare but said nothing. Gawain knew that look well but wasn't afraid to press his friend further, it both intrigued and amused him to see the usually stoical scout with his feathers ruffled.
"Tis a woman then, by the Gods!" he grinned, watching closely every subtle reactionary twitch on the face that to anyone else who knew it less, would appear merely blank and impassive. "So tell me…which is it Tristan? An eminent officer's daughter? Nay, let me guess…the bored wife of one of Arthur's rich diplomats?... God' s truth, you haven't taken up with old Lexus's daughter again have you?" He mocked with anxious eyes "He'll have your bollocks sliced, cooked and on a platter he if gets to hear of it."
Tristan laughed, despite himself. "Aye, I know! Me and half the bloody garrison! She has an insatiable appetite that one….as well you know!" then more solemnly he added, " No, tisn't her."
"So, who?" Gawain asked, feigning a most serious face, hoping to draw the usually clandestine Tristan out.
Tristan put down his ale, wiped his whiskers on his sleeve and sighed. Gawain waited, sensing Tristan was about to spill when Galahad precariously raised his head from the table.
"Ah shiiiit!" he groaned, "…gonna be sick…" with that he promptly leant toward Gawain and vomited, barely missing the knights boots.
"Fuckin' hell, Galahad! You whoreson…!" Gawain yelled, shoving him over in Tristan's direction. "can't someone teach this dumb pup to drink like a man?"
Tristan chuckled huskily as he caught Galahad's shoulders. "I'll take 'im back" Tristan said, standing up suddenly, grateful to Galahad for once, for presenting the opportunity to avoid questions he was loathe to answer, but at the same time, tempted to. "I need to get my head down, anyway."
"Aye, me too."Gawain agreed, disappointed not to have learnt who the tasty morsel was that had clearly unbalanced his friend. He'd find out soon enough, he supposed. "I'm on recon' at dawn."
Helping Tristan haul the intoxicated Galahad over his shoulder, they said their 'goodnights' and Gawain stayed a moment longer to finish his ale. Hanging upside down over tristan's shoulder, Galahad let out a long agonising groan.
"Puke down my breeches, boy and I'll skin your fuckin' arse." Tristan grumbled as he carried the young knight away.
…...
The next morning saw Aithne making her customary dawn visit to the tavern to find Gawain sat breaking his fast and it was a welcome sight. He looked up at her approach and greeted her with his usual hearty smile. He noticed immediately the unusual pallor her face wore and the eyes that looked his way that were a little swollen from lack of sleep but still, her round, pleasant face beamed at the sight of him.
"Now here's a sight to cheer a man's heart on a dark spring morn'! He called to her, grinning from beneath his long, flaxen lion's mane.
"Get away with ye, Gawain…I know full well I look a fright" Aithne chided, with a smile as she placed her tray of fresh baked bread on the counter.
They had become good friends over the months of dawn tavern meetings. Aithne had always felt pleasantly at ease with the knight, despite all his teasing. It was just his nature; good humoured and abundantly friendly as he was and Aithne had always taken it with the affable heart in which is was intended. She liked Gawain enormously, as she did Dagonet, also. How could any woman not?
Gawain the loud and cheery lion and Dagonet the quiet, deep-spoken giant - They came in fearsome shells but with one thing in common. They each had a kindness of spirit and a genuine affection for the gentler sex, which made it impossible for any woman to resist the warmth from their humour and attention. Unlike the tense, silent mornings when Tristan was on dawn patrol, the arrival of Aithne and her fresh baked bread was always a far different affair on the mornings of Gawain or Dagonet's duty.
"Mornin' Vanora" said Aithne, fighting a weary yawn.
"Good mornin' Sweet 'eart." Vanora said as she took the tray "By 'eck, lass! You look as rough as a badger's backside, wot you bin up to?"
Before Aithne could answer, a large arm curled around her shoulders and Gawain hugged her to his chest protectively.
"You alright, hen?" he smiled down at Aithne with genuine concern. 'Actually no, I'm not' she thought. remembering the painfully sleepless night she had spent trying to rid her thoughts of a certain knight. Aithne blushed at his show of concern, improving her pallor no end and smiled back.
"Aye, I'm well Gawain, just a little tired is all"
"Got herself a man I bet," Vanora teased saucily "I know that look anywhere"
"Bors wears it permanently," Gawain quipped in Aithne's ear, making her laugh and giving her another friendly squeeze.
"Well, well… here's someone else lookin' all the worse for a restless night!" Vanora gave Gawain a sly wink "Watcha doin' up so early, Tristan? Tisn't your shift….you 'ave trouble sleepin' an' all?"
Stunned at the mention of his name, Aithne stopped laughing and lowered her head, wincing inwardly at the sudden anxiety rearing its ugly head. Gawain, sensing the tension, took his arm from Aithne's shoulders and looked around at Tristan stood just behind them.
A strange combine of jealousy with the simple pleasure of being near her again, twisted painfully inside of Tristan. Jealous of Gawain for holding her close, when he had lain awake all night wanting to do just that. Jealous to witness the ease of a friendship between them he had, until that morning, no idea existed.
He had done it again hadn't he? He had come to the tavern at this hour, knowing she would be here - and to do what? To say what, exactly?
So, just to fuel to his simmering resentment nicely, he now felt awkward and 'admit it' damned foolish as well…and it hurt. Why did this slip of a village girl unbalance him so?... Him!
Not a shadow of these feelings cast upon his expressionless face as he stepped up to the counter next to Aithne.
Aithne's heart began its usual gallop at his being so close; strange how she'd always believed its inexorable pounding at the sight of him had been a cry to flee. She realised in that moment, as her heart called out to him, how wrong she had been.
She swallowed painfully, desperate for air and looked up to him, bravely. His eyes met hers and they stared at each other, unspeaking for quite sometime.
Gawain and Vanora looked on bewildered but remained silent, both sensing this was something that should not be interrupted.
"Aithne" Tristan murmured in greeting, eventually.
"Sir," she returned in a fractured whisper.
The silence stretched on until an unusually quiet Vanora raised a conspiring brow at Gawain, who was doing his damnedest to control a threatening grin. She picked up the tray of loaves and disappeared into the kitchens.
Seeing this as his cue to leave the two alone, Gawain turned to pick up his weapon and satchel but a voice called out Aithne's name just as Gawain was about to make his tactful exit and he stopped. It was her father.
"Aithne, can y' come here, sweeting." He called out as he walked towards them.
Aithne's heart sank with a dull, heavy thump. She hesitated, then bid a quiet and reluctant goodbye to both Tristan and Gawain. Tristan turned away, closing his eyes momentarily.
His mouth, a grim straight line, did not return the farewell.
…...
"Da, how could you?" Aithne cried, hardly believing what she was hearing.
"It's just a short trip to Arbeia, there's nowt wrong with that? He was good enough to ask for me say-so and I gave it" the old man insisted.
"There's much too much graft to be done, I've not the time for taking trips an' gallivanting 'round sea docks and markets." Aithne reasoned, making a show of grabbing her small bread cart to prove her point.
"Tosh!...I'll see this lot gets t'Keep kitchens." He argued, pushing her gently away from the cart "You get yersel' off, lord knows you've earned a days rest, lass."
"I don't wanna go" Aithne insisted stubbornly.
"But y'always said how much you longed to see Arbeia again!"
"I don't wanna go with him"
"By 'eck y' can be a thankless wretch at times, lass!" Her father shook his head in disbelief "Get off that throne you've sat y'arse on and give the lad a chance"
"Well that's just charmin' that is!" Aithne gasped, both insulted and angry "Well, I sharn't go, throne or not and there's an end to it!"
Her father shot her a rarely invoked angry glare. "Would you 'ave me….your own Da…look a liar and a fool?" he growled in a steadily rising voice "You shall go! Cos, I've given me word"
"You've no right t'be givin' your word, Da! I'm long past the age for you to be bartering me off to the highest bidder - I can choose my own companion, I'm a grown woman and a widow to boot"
"Aye, and he's been dead long enough, Aithne!"
"Da!" Aithne cried, tears stinging her eyes.
"Well, d'ya want t'spend the rest of y'god-given days a lonely, dried up old crone? Y' should be thankful Guyon's takin' notice…..lord knows you've had no other offers."
The hurt, betrayed eyes that stared back at him, misty with disbelief, nearly broke his heart.
"Oh lass, I didnay mean that, I didnay.." he implored suddenly, ashamed that he had spoken so "I was just tryin' to make y'see reason… I just want t'best for ye, is all...an I gave 'im me word, Aithne!" he reached out to grab her hands but Aithne pulled them from his reach. Before she could find the words to answer her father, a small ox-driven cart ambled it's way from behind the tavern and rolled to a stop beside them.
Aithne took a deep breath and stared at her father, disappointment and sorrow painted upon her face. How could she refuse to go now without shaming her father? She could almost hate him for putting her in such an impossible position. Defeated, she turned away without farewell and walked to the waiting cart. Guyon had stepped down and moved forward to offer Aithne a hand to help her into the seat next to his. She took it without complaint and climbed up. Once settled comfortably by her side, Guyon gave Aithne a crooked smile - as devastating and charming as ever whilst his pale blue eyes shone with clandestine triumph. Aithne gave a faint, polite smile in return and snuggled down in her mantle as Guyon called farewell to her father and urged the oxen on.
Still stood at the tavern counter, Tristan had watched the whole performance. He stared after the cart as it trundled away. His knitted brow, dark and pensive as he ran the tip of his tongue slowly across his lower lip.