SEMPER LIBER
Summary: A dying man's final request sends a young woman to a new life at Badon Hill. TristanOC.
Disclaimer & Author's Note: I like to think that Malory would have his legends of King Arthur belong to the ages, but I cannot lay claim to them nor to those responsible for the 2004 film by the same name. Thank you for reading, and enjoy! (Succor is one of tenants to which Arthur held his knights, according to Malory. It means, roughly, "to give aid.")
Chapter 3: Succor
Tristan bent to the ground to retrieve the fallen dagger. It was not often that he was caught unawares, but the sound of a new voice, a female voice, wrapped around the words of his homeland had drawn him out of the calm with which he generally carried himself. He studied the dagger in his palm, its hilt carved with characters at once foreign and familiar.
Gawain raised his voice over the quiet spring of Tristan's musings. "Let her go," he said to the Roman guard. The guard shoved the young woman's hand away forcefully. Tristan caught a glimpse of raw, red flesh at the girl's wrist and growled quietly at the guard.
As Gawain dismissed the Roman soldiers, Tristan turned the dagger over in his hand. He held it out to the girl, hilt first. "Take it," he said gruffly. She took the weapon from his hand with a careful nod of her head. After a moment, Tristan motioned towards the blade. "Put it away."
The young woman expelled an even breath and slid the dagger into a sheath hidden at her waist. Despite her obvious attempts to maintain her composure, her voice shook when she addressed Tristan. "Will you take me to Arthur?" she asked.
Tristan glanced up at Gawain. The blond knight nodded in silent agreement. "I'll see to the horse," Gawain said. He gathered the young horse's reins and pressed his broad hand against the animal's dark face. "Hey, hey," he said quietly to the tired stallion. The horse sighed deeply and leaned into Gawain's palm.
"I call him Ryn," the young woman said, her voice soft and tired.
Gawain smiled. "And what does he call you?"
The girl raised her eyebrow slightly. "I like to think that he'd call me Cariad if he was able. I'm sure you have something you'd like me to call you," she said, her voice lilting at the end.
"Gawain." He nodded towards his companions. "Tristan. Percival." To the latter he said, "Come on, then. With me." Percival scowled, regarding Cariad and Tristan with poorly veiled jealousy. Gawain chuckled as he led the young horse away, calling Percival along with his hand. "You'll have your fun later, I'm quite sure."
Tristan pressed his hand gently to the small of her back. "Come," he said. "I will take you to Arthur."
-
Arthur's subconscious did its best to keep him from waking at last to the insistent knocking on his door but, as it had been since Arthur picked up his father's sword at the age of twelve, there was no keeping his mind behind closed doors. He cleared his throat and pressed closed the pot of ink airing on his desk. "Come in."
He rose as the door swung open slowly on its cold, aching hinges. The familiar face of his scout appeared. "Tristan. What news?"
Tristan nodded in greeting and drew Cariad through the narrow doorway. Having gathered her composure in the hall, she did not react to the surprised expression in Arthur's disturbing green eyes or the authority that seemed to course through his body like its lifeblood.
"You have a guest," Tristan said plainly. At Arthur's sharp glance, Tristan closed the door behind them and took up a place against the wall, head down and ears alert.
Arthur smiled gently. His visitor was weary, even dirty, but did not appear injured or aggrieved in any serious way, and for her sake and his own, he was pleased. He laid his hand on the chair he'd occupied moments before. "Please, sit. You look as though you could use a rest."
Cariad shook her head. "You are Arthur Castus?"
Arthur watched her, his face a study of stone. "I am. And your name, lady?"
"Cariad," she said, her voice wrapping firmly around the one thing she knew would not change, clinging to its plain honesty. "I have come from a village south of here to deliver a letter into your hand."
"It's author?" Arthur asked, watching as she pulled a fold of soft, worn paper from her cloak.
She pressed the paper between her fingers, unwilling, for a moment, to let it go. After her brief indulgence, she placed the letter in Arthur's outstretched hand. "My father," she said, raising her eyes to his. "He served under your father for many years."
"And now?" Arthur's mind darkened at the howling whisper of the words he knew would come from the girl's mouth.
"He died last night," Cariad said. From the corner, Tristan noted with no small interest that, of all the things that may have shaken her, these words did not.
Arthur offered his guest the chair once more, and once more she refused. "I have been sitting for a half a day, sir," she said. "Though if it makes you feel better, we might pretend that I am enjoying your chair thoroughly."
Tristan hid a snicker behind a cough. Cariad's words gave Arthur a moment's pause, and then he smiled. "As long as you are quite comfortable."
Arthur slid his thumb beneath the blue wax seal of the letter and unfolded the page. He read quickly and carefully, his thoughts hidden behind a worried frown. At last, he looked up from the letter which, though it had been so heavy for Cariad to bear, looked small and insignificant in his ink-stained hands. "You are aware of the contents of this letter?" he asked.
Cariad nodded. "I am. My father had neither the hand nor the letters. I transcribed his words faithfully."
"I have no doubt." Arthur looked back to the letter briefly. "Do you wish me to honor your father's request?" he asked gently. He hated to put the question to her now, when she was so obviously weary and, despite having found her target, temporarily lost. He laid the letter on his desk and lifted Cariad's chin with careful fingers. "You will not be a burden to me, whatever you choose."
Arthur's kind words stung at the back of her eyes. "I…" She paused, her tongue suddenly thick in her mouth. "My father assured me that you are a good man. I would have you do what's best for your men. For myself, I would be pleased to serve you."
Arthur nodded slowly, searching for a way to rephrase her words without offending her offer. He shook these thoughts away. "Welcome to Badon Hill," he said kindly. "Eat and sleep well tonight. We can speak at greater length tomorrow." He gestured to Tristan with an open palm. "Please show her to Lamorak's old room. I will send Jols to have it prepared."
-
"He's not such a nag once you get the dirt off him," Gawain said, brushing the dark horse's shoulder with firm, swift strokes. He laid his hand on the animal's neck. "Almost handsome, you are." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Percival raise a long, slightly curved sword from a sheath tied to the saddle.
"This is a nice sword," Percival said, turning the blade in his hand. He held the base of the hilt in two fingers. The blade tipped slightly away from him before he caught it up again. "A little off balance." He shrugged. "Not a woman's weapon."
"Not yours either," Gawain snapped.
Percival laughed. "You and Tristan are always so worried about my behavior. I'm not as old as you. Forgive me if I have maintained my sense of humor."
"You've killed men of all ages," Tristan said, striding purposefully into the stable. He took the dao from his cousin and slid it forcefully into its sheath. "You're old enough, and old enough to know better."
Percival frowned for only a moment, chagrined, but he did not let his fellows see. He rolled his eyes. "So, what's the girl's story?" He made himself busy untying the saddlebags.
Gawain leaned over the stall door, the hard brush dangling from his hand. "What did Arthur say?"
"She's staying." Tristan shrugged.
"Who is she?" Percival insisted, his voice bright with prospect. It was rare that a new face came to the fort, and even rarer that that face was worth looking at.
"Ask her."
Percival tucked the saddlebags under his arms. "All right."
Tristan growled. "Not now." He took his cousin's burdens with the hands of a practiced thief. He gathered the sheathed sword and quiver. "The horse?" he said to Gawain.
"Tired, but in good health," the blond knight answered. The horse kicked viciously at the stall wall. Gawain grinned. "Although it's somewhat clear that he'd never been properly stabled in his life."
Tristan smirked at that, hiding the smile behind his braids. On that subject, he thought that maybe none of them ever had.
-
Cariad pressed her burning cheek to the window pane. The fire Jols had started dried the room, its heat stretching the tired corners of her eyes and mouth. She yawned, then traced her finger through the condensation that appeared on the glass. She did not hear the soft knock on her door, or the footsteps that followed.
"Lady."
Cariad spun away from the window. "Sir," she chirped. She ignored his amused expression and waited for her heart to slow in her chest. "I have not given you my name only to have you call me by that useless epithet." The words grated across her lips where she had expected them to pass through with a light sparkle of indignation. "I'm sorry."
Tristan nodded. "Cariad, then."
"Tristan." She eyed the bundles in his arms and reached forward to take the saddlebags from his hands. "Thank you." She settled the bags on the floor and reached for her father's weapons. Hers now.
Tristan held out the quiver but kept the dao to himself, studying the hilt carefully. "Your father's," he said, a musing rather than a question.
Cariad itched to snatch the sword from the stranger's fingers. She clenched her teeth in her mouth, her hands at her sides. "Yes," she said tightly.
Sensing he'd pushed her just far enough, Tristan relinquished the sword. "It's well cared for."
"Thank you," Cariad said shortly. She tucked the sword, bow, and quiver beneath the low bed. Still bent close to the ground, she laid her hand on the fresh linens. "How long?" she asked.
"Three weeks," Tristan said, watching her fingers twitch unconsciously over the material. "Woad arrow."
Cariad stared blankly at the bedclothes. "My horse…"
"Is fine," Tristan finished.
A log snapped on the hearth, and Cariad nearly went with it. She turned to Tristan. "I am sorry. You have been nothing but kind to me and I have been decidedly ungrateful." Her lips wobbled in an exhausted smile. She sat carefully on the edge of the bed. She raised her eyes to his, their gaze slipping slightly away to the dark marks on his cheekbones. "The Iagyzes are the only tribe to mark their people," she said softly.
Tristan nodded. "Your father?"
"Yes," Cariad said quickly. She rubbed absently at her left shoulder blade.
Tristan fought the tug of compassion that pulsed in his chest. He looked out the window, away from her searching gaze. "It is not shameful to grieve, Cariad."
Cariad closed her eyes against the defeat that threatened to consume her. "My father gave the best of years of his life to Rome and all the years after to me. He is at peace. I have no reason to grieve."
Tristan bit his lip hard before he spoke again. He turned his dark eyes on her, hoping they were only hard enough to communicate his point. "The dead have no need for it. Grief is for the living."