Chapter Five: The Training Squares
Tristan knew he shouldn't have followed her. But something about the black-haired girl had wrenched his insides, and he couldn't stay away from her. He didn't understand it – he was drawn to her like a moth to a flame. And he knew he was going to get burnt. And now Lancelot was talking about her as if she belonged to him. It made Tristan quite angry at how Lancelot got as many women as he wanted. Tristan knew the women around the fort were scared of him, but now and again one girl or another would try to get him to bed, even if only to see if he was as feral there as he was on the battlefield. Tristan never loved them, taking only what he needed: relaxation and distraction.
He turned his mind to the girl from the market place. Her black hair - most alike to his own, her bottomless eyes, angular chin. She reminded him so much of... something. Tristan was aggravated by the fact that he couldn't place her face. He knewwho she was... but at the same time, he knew nothing about her.
That girl is here somewhere,Tristan mused. Somewhere in this building.He almost laughed. If Lancelot knew, he would be searching every cupboard for her in an instant.
Tristan was also put out by the girl – she was dangerous. He had seen the way she handled herself at the market place, the knives, the way she had so easily seen through Lancelot; he had noticed how easily she knew that someone was following her. Tristan knew from experience that you had to be constantly watching your back so as to know immediately when someone was following you.
He shook himself out of his reverie, ignoring the intriguingly angular face that swam in front of his vision. Arthur looked questioningly at him, worried. Tristan gave an almost imperceptible nod of his head and Arthur nodded back. He would tell him later.
What was a girl like that doing in a place like this? Tristan thought. Unless she has come to assassinate Arthur.But if she was as dangerous as he thought, she would know by now that Arthur was sitting here, and would have tried to kill him already. Tristan was sure she hadn't left yet. He had chosen this seat specifically for the fact that he could clearly see both entrances and the stairway. But what if she had left? No. She couldn't have. But what if she's gone…?
Tristan had to be sure. He stood up, making as to go to the bar. None of his friends questioned it; often Tristan left early so as to be alone with his thoughts. Instead of getting a drink, however, he started up the stairs.
Avilon saw him rise, and immediately knew what he was going to do. She looked frantically up the stairs. Her room was at the end of the hall – she'd never get inside before he got to the landing. But she could try.
Tristan heard the scrabbling ahead of him and hastened up them, two at a time. He came up onto the landing and there she was, her back to him, trying to open one of the doors that led to the lodging-rooms. She wore a pale blue tunic, with a white shirt underneath and woollen breeches.
'Why are you sneaking around?' He asked, curious despite of himself. The girl froze, then turned around, fright clear on her face.
'I wasn't… I'm staying here,' she explained. Tristan heard her accent, strong and hidden at the same time.
'Yes, I know.' He regretted the words as soon as he spoke them. The Irish girl looked satisfied, as if she had known all along abut him following her and he had just proved it, and then quickly covered her satisfaction up with a look of fake confusion. As she stared at him, he saw something burn in the bottom of her eyes - a flash of recognition. So he wasn't imagining it - he knew the girl from somewhere.
His eyes raked over her black hair, half shining in the sunlight, half in shadow, her angular face and straight nose. He felt strange being around her. It wasn't lust, no, far from it. Tristan was just utterly fascinated – against his better judgement – for this girl was more like himself than anyone he'd ever met.
'Who are you?' Tristan asked. The girl shut her mouth stubbornly. Well,Tristan thought, she understands the power of a name.Annoyed and a little worried, he pulled his eyes from her face and did a quick body-check for secreted knives.
A concealed knife – well hidden – created a small protrusion at her hip. Tristan held out his hand, saying, 'knives, please.' He saw the girl debating, and his fears were confirmed. She was just as dangerous as he had thought.
The girl thrust a hand into her pocket, pulling out a knife of low quality. She purposefully fumbled it and dropped the knife, tip downwards, to the floor, where it lay embedded in the wood. Tristan's mouth twitched at the corners, showing the girl that he hadn't fallen for her trick. The girl bent down and pulled the knife from the wood, laying it carefully in his hand. Tristan gave her a pointed look, and she sighed and bent down again, pulling another knife from her boot. She put that in his hand too, then turned to leave.
'Ah!' Tristan said, catching her arm. 'I want the other ones.' Avilon thought about lying and saying she didn't have more, but it would be pointless. She moved her arms in a sudden gesture and two small daggers slipped from under her sleeves into her palms, the perfect position to be thrown. Tristan took one, then the other, nodded his thanks and turned to leave.
As he climbed down the stairs, tucking the daggers into his clothing, he thought about the girl he had left up on the landing. He needed to figure out why she was here, or his world and everything he knew would come crashing down.
Pushed up against the wall, his hands on her thighs, lips at her throat. Limp and weak – powerless to stop the inevitable. He threw her down onto the floor, ripping her dress at the shoulders, baring her chest.
'No-one will want you now… You're used goods!' he jeered, pushing himself on top of her. She let it happen, writhing feebly on the cold stone floor, moaning with pain. He pinched her skin; bit her neck, punishing her for his own lewdness.
'That is, if the burns don't scare them away first.' He pushed harder, and she screamed in agony –
'STOP!' Avilon howled, launching herself out of the bed and into the waking world. Her face and body streamed with sweat, tingling all over. Falling to her knees, breathing heavily, she ripped off her necklace and threw it away in anger. It skittered over the uneven floor, coming to rest by the door.
'Where were you, my brother?' Avilon murmured, head bent. 'When I was dying? Why didn't you save me?'
She stayed in that position, motionless, watching the room gradually lighten and the shadows retreat to their corners, feeling the memories drain away. Her back itched and her knees ached from the hard wooden floor. Slowly, Avilon pushed herself off the floor, and sat down on the bed. She rubbed her back absentmindedly with one hand, her tired eyes with another. Sighing quietly, she picked up the second tin box from atop the chest of drawers and opened it. Inside was a cream – a salve. Avilon pulled off her night-shirt, revealing terrible burns to her upper arms and abdomen. She dipped her fingers into the balm, rubbing it into her afflicted skin.
Sighing again, this time with relief, Avilon shoved the box back in its place and opened the chest of drawers. Avilon wrapped her breast-band round her chest and pulled her undershirt and a clean tunic on over the top. She slid into her riding breeches and boots, then sat again on the bed. She took a small leather pouch from her tin box and started to re-braid her hair with sea-blue beads from within it.
When Avilon was finished, she slipped two knives into her boots, one into the thigh-sheath she wore and another up her sleeve. At the door, she bent down and picked up her necklace, hair swinging down over her shoulders. Sighing, she clipped the chain back round her neck and left the room, locking the door behind her. Avilon went down to the taproom, and ordered some breakfast. Instead of eating it there, Avilon took the bread and cold meat with her, bolting it down as she crossed the town and had finished by the time she got to the orchard of trees that led to the Knights' Quarters. She had just been walking, her subconscious telling her the way. She didn't quite know why she had come here, but her whole body seemed pulled in that direction like a leaf in the wind.
I'll have to get him on his own, maybe tonight. But you cannot get attached. Quick and clean, just like he said. No, don't think about him. You can be out of here by morning, free as the wind. But what will I do when I'm free? What will I do without the hate that spurs me on, the hate that has brought me here?
Avilon was so deep in her own personal battle that she didn't notice the curly-haired knight leaning against a tree just off the road. As she walked straight past, he looked offended at not being noticed or acknowledged.
'Hey,' he yelled. 'Hey, lady!' Avilon stopped in her tracks, surprised. Looking round, she caught sight of Lancelot and rolled her eyes.
'I thought I made it clear yesterday that I –' Lancelot cut her off.
'That you were what? Annoyingly mysterious, beautiful, with a lovely voice and a strange gift to verbally dissect and examine each aspect of one's behaviour?' He joked.
'I thought I made it perfectly clear that I was in no way interested in you or your pompous friends.' Lancelot looked hurt at such a solid dismissal, but composed himself as Avilon turned and continued walking.
'But, if you were in no way interested, why would you be coming to our training session?' He asked pointedly. Avilon thought quickly. A training session? I could see which ones are the best fighters, and possible get my knives back from that knight.
'Well,' Avilon said, turning on the charm. 'You train in your armour?' Lancelot knew immediately what she was implying.
'I train shirtless,' he drawled. 'So do many of the other knights. Because of this… hot weather.'
God's truth,Avilon thought, however does this man get so many women?
'Perhaps I will come along then – especially if so many of your friends train shirtless.' She smiled at him, joking.
Lancelot and Avilon walked together down the orchard and round the great white building that was the knights' quarters. As she emerged from the shadows and into the sunlight, Avilon looked up to see the training squares.
Four dusty patches of sand stood out from the grass, ringed by rope tied to wooden posts. The trees continued down a few hundred meters, and branched out into a rough circle. Looking hard, Avilon could see people in the cool shadows, escaping from the hot sun.
She left Lancelot's side, seeking cover in the single line of trees. Seated there, with her back against a trunk and all four training squares in her sight, Avilon was in a perfect position to watch and analyse all the knights as they fought. She smiled to herself. This was going to be too easy. The knights obviously had no guards – they were arrogant enough to think they could defend themselves even when they slept. Avilon sobered as four of the knights came into the sunlight, joking between themselves. One pulled off from the group, coming quite close to Avilon and settling down beside the next-tree-but-one to her. He had very blue eyes and fluffy, white-blond hair. She didn't recognise him from the tavern – he must have sustained injury as he was not taking part in the training. He was very young, maybe only seventeen, like Avilon herself.
Turning back to the knights, she saw that the three first had been joined by four newcomers. Scanning each face, Avilon saw which ones she recognised and who hadn't been in the tavern yesterday. For there had only been six knights there and now there were seven. Arthur was easily discernable – his brown hair, stocky figure and superior gait. Lancelot was eyeing her tree as he removed his black shirt, and so was the hawk-like man with tattoos who had stolen her knives yesterday. He too took off his brown tunic, revealing planes of rigid muscle, interspersed with the faded pink lines of well-healed scars, and started to cut up an apple, chewing on them as he picked out a weapon from the pile next to him. As she watched, she felt again that burn of recognition, and her hand unconsciously flew to her necklace again, rubbing the charm between two fingers. Who is he?She asked herself. Why do I know him?.
Avilon turned away from him, unnerved, and looked towards two more half-naked men, massively muscled, who were already jumping over the rope into one of the training squares. One of them looked towards the trees at the end of the field and waved towards some kids who were playing there.
The boy who looked like Lancelot had removed his undershirt and was also eyeing Avilon's tree with curiosity and – was it? – embarrassment. Avilon laughed bitterly. She was no stranger to a man's anatomy. The final knight had his back to her, the upper half of his body uncovered. Avilon counted on her fingers and knew that this man was the one who had been absent from the tavern yesterday. He turned suddenly and Avilon gaped openly. The stranger had what looked like a triple claw mark down the front of his chest, from his neck to his belly button. The man had very blue eyes and brown-blond braids, not unlike the hawk-mans. He looked up and their eyes met. Avilon snapped her mouth shut, embarrassed. She wanted to look down but couldn't tear her eyes away from the man's gaze. His eyes seemed to look right through her, past the disguise and the composure – the lies – and straight into her soul. Then the moment was over and the knight had turned and picked up a long-sword, thrown his body over the ropes and started bartering the other men for an opponent.
Avilon gasped in breath. Her lungs hurt, like there was pressure on them. 'God's truth,' she whispered. What just happened?
The man sitting close to her chuckled, and Avilon looked up at him. He was staring at her, unashamed to be caught watching.
'Why are you laughing at me?' She frowned.
'Gawain's scars have that affect on most people,' the boy smiled back. Hesitantly, Avilon walked to his side and sat next to him, keeping in the shade. The boy smiled again.
'Gareth,' he nodded, introducing himself.
'I… Avilon,' she said quietly, smiling back in spite of herself. Somehow she felt she was able to entrust this man with her name. 'So… how did he get the scars?'
'Oh that? Well, that was me…'