27 Early morning
Several days later Tristan woke up at the first light of dawn to find Balan approaching the side of his bed.
"Tristan?"
"Hmmph?" he replied sleepily.
"Why does Arthur want me to become a scout if it is so dangerous?"
Tristan glanced at Balan and noted the apprehension and seriousness in the boy's eyes. He willed himself to wake up.
"Because I advised him so," he rasped, rubbing his face. He raised himself on his elbows and motioned for Balan to sit on the bed. Balan gladly lifted his feet off the cold floor, but kept his eyes fixed on Tristan.
Tristan reached for a jug of water by his bed and quenched his thirst. Balan waited patiently, but the intensity of his gaze did not falter, a burning question clearly written all over his face.
Tristan put the jug away and looked intently into Balan's eyes.
"There are many dangers in the life of a warrior, boy. On the battlefield no less than if he is scouting. But in your case there is a difference. A scout can influence his own safety through his choices and his level of skill. Observation, stealth and tracking are skills that I can teach you regardless of your age or physical strength. You will be able to improve them without needing to wait for your body to grow stronger."
Balan stared at the floor and pondered on Tristan's words. He had not thought of this before.
"What about my skills in battle?" he asked.
Tristan suppressed a yawn and smiled.
"As much as you may wish, boy, you cannot change that you're eleven years old at the moment."
Balan's ears turned red.
"Almost twelve," he said quickly.
Tristan chuckled, but then he became serious.
"You will grow a lot taller and stronger in the coming years, Balan. For now I can teach you to be swift and to kill with precision. I can teach you to find your enemies' weaknesses and to get through their defences. These skills will be of great importance to you when you face your opponents in battle. But we cannot change that you will be the one with less physical strength for a few more years."
Balan's shoulders sagged in embarrassment, but Tristan caught the boy's gaze before he could lower his eyes.
"I would not have suggested that you become a scout, if I did not think you had all the necessary qualities to become very good at it," he emphasized.
Balan stared into Tristan's eyes, taking his time to register what the scout had just said. He brightened up and Tristan could see that his words had given the boy a surge of hope, courage and confidence.
But then the light in Balan's eyes faded. A shadow of guilt passed across the boy's face.
"I'd rather be a good swordsman, like my dad and like you," he confessed.
"Then practise hard!" Tristan encouraged. "You can be both. We will continue sword practice when you learn scouting skills. Scouts run into sword fights as well."
Balan frowned.
"I also want to be a good swordsman on the battlefield!" he said stubbornly. "I want to fight with a real sword, not with a piece of wood. Then I will be able to defeat Celts and Saxons, just like my father!"
Tristan let out a dry laugh and pushed his blankets aside.
"A grown Saxon would raze you to the ground, boy. Wait until you are a few years older. You will need stronger arms to block blows from Saxon swords."
Tristan sat on the edge of his bed and put on his breeches.
"Practice and patience, boy! Then you'll defeat a Saxon one day."
Balan got to his feet and climbed on the chair by Tristan's bed.
"When I am older I will become as strong as my dad!" he announced confidently, stretching his back and squaring his shoulders to convince the scout. "One day I will be stronger than Gawain and the enemy will fear me!"
Tristan laughed.
Balan looked down at Tristan with the air of a mighty warrior-king and pretended to kill him with an invisible sword.
Tristan chuckled inwardly as he put on his tunic and his jerkin. Balan's playful attitude was infectious! He kept a straight face and calmly gave the boy a shove, causing Balan to tumble backwards onto the bed. Balan tried to get up, but Tristan grabbed his shoulders and held him down.
"How strong is your father?" Tristan asked with a mirthful twinkle in his eyes.
"Much stronger than you!" Balan giggled mischievously.
"Show me," Tristan grinned, flexing his fingers in an obvious threat.
"Like this!" Balan roared.
He yelled his father's battle cry at the top of his voice and fought with great enthusiasm to break free. When even Balan's best efforts failed, the scout began to tickle him mercilessly, causing Balan to laugh and squeal so loudly that the other knights in the building woke up. Tristan's dry laugh resounded through the hallway.
When Tristan finally let him go and turned to walk away from the bed, Balan didn't hesitate and jumped on the scout's back. He wrapped his arms around Tristan's neck and tried to wrestle him backwards onto the bed. Tristan grabbed the boy's wrists, bent down and flipped the boy over his shoulder with ease. Balan gasped when he found himself in a tight head lock under Tristan's arm.
"If you don't get dressed right now, I will drag you to the stables and plunge you into the nearest water trough," Tristan threatened.
Balan looked up from under the scout's arm. Tristan's twinkling eyes did not fool him: The scout would certainly keep his word!
BANG!
The door flew open and a rather disgruntled Lancelot stood in the doorway, momentarily puzzled by the scene in front of him.
"What's all this racket?" he asked irritably, stifling a yawn.
Tristan bit back a grin.
"Go back to bed, Lancelot. I'm taking Balan for a ride."
"Can you please do that without the noise?" Lancelot scowled. He glared at the two scouts and muttered something about complete and utter inaptitude, before he closed the door.
"Are you really taking me for a ride?" Balan asked excitedly.
Tristan nodded.
"And you will ride your own horse."
Balan spun around and gaped at the scout, not quite ready to believe that he had heard correctly.
Tristan chuckled. The previous evening Arthur had come to inform them that - by Ruccius' decree - the boy had permission to ride his horse again, provided that he was accompanied by a fully trained Sarmatian knight. Balan had already been asleep and Tristan had promised to tell him in the morning.
"My horse won't even recognize me," Balan mused. "It's been so long since I last saw him."
"Well, we can change that," Tristan offered. "I believe that your horse has a water trough."
Without another word he grasped the boy's wrist and headed for the door, hiding his grin. The boy struggled with fervour, yanking and twisting and prying at Tristan's hand to break his grip. Balan braced his feet on the floor and clung to the doorframe with his free hand, trying hard not to laugh when Tristan pulled him loose.
"No!" he giggled in protest.
"Hush, boy!" Tristan grinned, dragging him on.
Further up the hallway a door opened and Gawain stuck his sleepy head outside.
"Gawain!" Balan squealed. "Help m…"
Tristan quickly covered the boy's mouth and sent him a mock-glare.
"Will you get dressed?" he asked.
Balan nodded fervently.
"Not a sound!" Tristan warned.
Balan instantly twisted from the scout's grip and bolted back to their room. He snatched his tunic from the foot of his bed, grabbed his boots, his belt and his cloak and a few moments later he hurried after Tristan to the stables.
AN: This chapter is dedicated to Ithil-valon, who wished to see some light-hearted exchange between Balan and Tristan.