39 Retribution

Warning: Violent abuse of a minor in this chapter. Read at your own discretion.

Balan was reeling with shock. How had the sword come to be here? And Arthur had not believed him. Instead he had ordered Tristan to…

His thoughts were interrupted when Tristan seized him by the scruff of his neck and pointed at the weapons. "Pick them up," the scout's deep voice growled in his ear.

Balan gathered all weapons in a piece of oilskin. He rolled up his sleeves and submerged his hands in the murky water to make sure that no weapons lay hidden beneath its surface. His fingers dug through the mud until he was certain that nothing was left behind. When he hurried to the cistern to wash his hands, Galahad followed him and seized a bucket.

"Do you have a death wish?" whispered Galahad, pouring water over Balan's arms. "How could you be so stupid?"

"I didn't do it," Balan whispered back.

"No conversations," called Tristan.

There was an edge in Tristan's voice. Instinct warned Balan to tread very carefully around the scout. Tristan motioned for Balan to follow him. Balan bent down to pick up the bundle of weapons, checking them carefully. He had to be certain that no weapons were left behind this time. Suddenly his eyes widened. Two of his throwing knives were missing. He glanced at the puddle, but he knew that he had checked it thoroughly.

"Are you coming?" demanded Tristan from the doorway.

"My knives are gone," said Balan softly. His eyes scanned the floor and he searched between the weapons in the bundle.

"Now, boy!" There was no mistaking the threat in Tristan's voice.

Unwilling to leave without his knives, Balan glanced around the stable as he took a few steps back towards the door. Galahad made frantic shooing motions and mouthed, "Go! Go!" Balan heard Tristan's footsteps approach behind him and made to turn around, but too late. Two resounding slaps landed on his ears. Tristan dragged him to the door and shoved him outside with a painful kick to his rear. Wincing, Balan held tight to the bundle of weapons and hurried after the scout into the dreary morning rain.

The walls of the armoury were lined with rows upon rows of Roman shields and spears. An ever present scent of leather, sweat and mud filled the quiet air.

Balan placed the last bundle on the shelf and wiped his sweaty brow. Tristan had forced him to return all weapons to their original pristine state. Balan had cleaned and oiled every piece of metal and wood, he had waxed the leather parts and polished the blades until they shone. But Tristan kept finding things not to his liking and each time he had told Balan to start all over. After five long hours in the armoury, Balan's work had finally received the scout's approval.

Balan glanced at Tristan and wondered if he dared voice his thoughts. Tristan's ominous silence put him on his guard. Would he risk it?

Just then the scout glanced up and noticed that Balan had finished. He put aside his sword and unbuckled his belt. Alarmed, Balan took a few steps backwards. "I swear I returned your sword to the armoury last night," he stammered. "I didn't leave it in the stable." Tristan ignored his words. "Take off your tunic," he ordered curtly.

Anger boiled in the pit of Balan's stomach. He was telling the truth! He did not deserve this beating. He looked up into the unyielding eyes of the scout and could not suppress a shiver of fear. A glint of bloodlust was visible behind the quiet determination in Tristan's eyes. Would he dare to resist? There was no way would win, he knew Tristan too well for that. Was it not better to just take his whipping?

"I swear I did not leave your sword in the stable," he repeated. "I…"

An icy glare from Tristan silenced him. Balan stared into Tristan's eyes, willing the scout to believe him. Tristan stared at Balan, growing ever more impatient with the boy's defiance. Silence stretched between them and the ominous glare in Tristan's eyes intensified.

Kicking the floor in frustration, Balan unfastened his cloak and fumbled with the laces of his vest. He did not want to take this whipping! Why did Tristan refuse to listen to him? It was this, more than anything, that fueled Balan's fury. It boiled inside him like a pit of writhing snakes. The laces of his vest came loose and he threw the garment to the floor. Trembling with anger he clenched his fists on the hem of his tunic.

Tristan watched the play of emotions on Balan's face. If the boy did not hurry up, he'd make him regret it. Tristan took his belt in his other hand and looped it. But Balan did not take off his tunic.

Tristan stared at Balan expectantly. The anger in Balan's eyes had been replaced by a familiar gleam. Tristan growled inwardly. The boy was digging in his heels. He had enough experience of Balan's stubbornness to know that the boy would fight him to the bitter end and still refuse to comply. Tristan knew that he would eventually win this fight, but not without a long struggle. He licked his lips. He had no desire to be drawn into a battle of wills. Making up his mind, he walked to Ellis's workbench and took a leather thong from one of the shelves. When he returned he noticed concern in Balan's eyes. So the boy was afraid. Good!

Balan eyed the thong warily. An overwhelming urge to fight or flee welled up inside him, but he fought it down. The Roman fort offered no escape and Tristan would double his punishment if he tried to run. With tremendous effort he remained passive when Tristan grabbed his wrists and bound them together.

Tristan tied the end of the thong to a slanting beam over Balan's head. Then he jerked Balan's tunic up to his wrists, baring his back.

"It's been a long time since I've had to whip you," he growled. "And it'd better be long before I have to do it again."

Balan shot him a pleading look, but Tristan ignored it. He cracked his belt across the boy's bare shoulders. Balan groaned and pulled at the thong that held his wrists. The second lash hit his lower back and he yelped in pain. Tristan frowned. It was nothing like Balan to be vocal early on in a thrashing. He hit the boy again and Balan cried out. Tristan growled irritably. What was wrong with the boy? Not only had he been careless with their weapons, he had also denied doing it, which infuriated Tristan immensely. He had never known Balan to make excuses for his wrongdoings. He whipped Balan from his shoulders down across the seat of his breeches all the way to the back of his knees. He was careful not to break skin, but he used enough force to make Balan scream.

'Scream, boy,' he thought grimly. 'I am not done with you yet.'

Balan's face was wet with tears when Tristan finally threw aside his belt. He almost lost his balance when Tristan untied him.

"Take off your boots," ordered Tristan coldly.

Balan's eyes widened in horror. When he had just arrived in Britain, Tristan had whipped the soles of his feet once. Was he going to do it again? With a nervous glance at the scout he pulled off his boots. The floor of the armoury was icy beneath his bare feet.

"Put your boots on the shelf," pointed Tristan. "Fetch your sword."

Bewildered, Balan complied.

"Get dressed," said Tristan curtly.

Balan gingerly put on his tunic, his vest and his cloak. But when he reached for his boots, Tristan stopped him.

"Follow me, boy."

Balan glanced from his boots to Tristan, who was leaving the armoury.

"Do I have to whip you again?" came a harsh call from the door.

Balan swallowed nervously, picked up his sword and hurried after Tristan.

Tristan marched briskly through the fort. Ignoring the muddy road beneath his feet, Balan ran to keep up with him.

"Where are we going?" he asked nervously.

Tristan did not respond and strode purposefully towards the gate. On the fields outside the fort the knights had resumed their combat skills training. For a moment Balan hoped that Tristan would leave him in the care of Bors and Dagonet, but the scout passed them without a word. On the edge of the field Tristan turned around sharply and faced Balan with his sword on guard, as if ready for a fight.

Balan stared at the scout, uncertain what Tristan expected of him.

Without warning Tristan charged. He hit Balan's stomach with the flat side of his sword and rammed the hilt against Balan's shoulder, knocking him down.

"Defend yourself, boy," snarled Tristan, pulling Balan back to his feet.

Balan gasped for breath and doubled over in pain, but Tristan did not wait for him to recover. He took a step back and attacked again. This time Balan dodged the blow, but Tristan seized Balan's cloak and pressed his blade against Balan's throat.

"If you don't fight, you'll die," Tristan hissed.

Alarmed, Balan stepped back and drew his sword. Tristan charged and immediately disarmed him. The scout blocked Balan from reaching his sword and beat him mercilessly with the flat side of the curved blade. Balan stumbled and fell under the onslaught, but Tristan kicked him until he got back to his feet. Balan was terrified. Why did Tristan not wait for him to get up? He pulled himself together and ran to avoid Tristan's blows.

Bors and Dagonet watched from a distance. Tristan was giving the boy one hell of a beating. The scout didn't give Balan a moment's respite and kept knocking the boy down to the ground. This type of training was normally reserved for older, more experienced recruits. It taught soldiers to keep defending themselves if luck turned against them. Dagonet frowned. Balan's moves were stiff, courtesy of the whipping Tristan had given him, no doubt. But why was the boy out on bare feet in these near-freezing temperatures? Balan stumbled repeatedly and limped through his moves. Dagonet shook his head in dismay. The boy was paying dearly for his transgression.

Balan did what he could to defend himself, but failed. All he could do was hold on to his sword, for if he dropped it, Tristan only came down on him harder. Balan's feet were numb with cold and he was bleeding from stepping on rocks and scraps of metal that lay scattered across the field. He rolled over to avoid a blow and scrambled away from the irate scout. Tristan put a foot in the small of Balan's back and pushed him down, then grabbed a handful of mud and pressed it against Balan's mouth and nose. Balan spluttered and tried to get away, but Tristan forced the mud into Balan's mouth and rubbed it into his eyes and nose. Balan retched and gasped for breath, but Tristan was relentless. He yanked Balan to his feet and raised his sword.

"Fight, boy!" he growled.

Balan was exhausted. His entire body throbbed and ached and his tears had long since dried. He had tried to reason with Tristan, but Tristan had punched him so hard that his lip had split. Rain came down in sheets and Balan was drenched to his skin. With tremendous effort Balan raised his sword in defence, but Tristan knocked it out of his hand and kicked Balan back to the soggy ground.

Kneeling on all fours, Balan reached for his sword. He managed to stand up on trembling legs, but his vision blurred and he sank back to his knees. Tristan kicked him hard and told him to get up. Balan tried with all his might, but his legs refused to carry him. As Tristan grabbed his hair and pulled him to his feet, Balan felt his sword slip from his numb fingers. He heard Tristan growl impatiently and knew that Tristan was going beat him again. His tired mind vaguely urged him to plead, but he knew that pleading would only enrage Tristan more. Tristan released his grip and Balan's legs gave way. He fell back to the ground. Closing his eyes, he numbly let Tristan's blows rain down on him.

Arthur watched from a distance. He had allowed Tristan to deal with Balan in his own way. But it was getting dark and the boy was past his breaking point.

"Tristan, enough!" he ordered. "Let him go now."

Tristan lowered his sword and stared down at the boy. Balan remained on the ground, unable to get up. Tristan grimaced. He realized that he had taken his vengeance too far. However, Balan should never have broken his trust. Tristan picked up Balan's sword and lifted the boy's limp body over his shoulder, wordlessly passing Arthur on his way to the fort.

Tristan stared into the fire. Bedivere and Dagonet had stripped the boy naked and were presently tending to his wounds. Seeing the boy's small, battered body had made him feel uneasy. He hated himself for his inability to shut out these feelings. More than that, he hated himself for his coldblooded ruthlessness. In the year since Balan's arrival, Tristan had become quite fond of the young boy. He had trusted Balan, had actually believed that he knew him well. But Balan had proved him wrong... Tristan glared into the fire. It had been this betrayal, more than anything, that had fueled his fury and bloodlust.

He glanced over his shoulder as Dagonet and Bedivere rose from the side of the bed. Balan wore a clean shirt. His face was covered in the familiar thick paste that the healers used for bruises and abrasions. Bedivere had stitched the boy's cut lip and the bleeding had stopped. "Go to sleep," said Dagonet kindly. He tucked the boy under his blankets and put a gentle hand on Balan's head. Then he turned to face Tristan.

"Why the bare feet?"

"Teach him respect for proper gear," said Tristan coldly.

Dagonet looked at him with a mix of pity and concern, but refrained from commenting. Bedivere placed a calming hand on Tristan's shoulder. The pair of them walked out of the room, leaving Tristan alone with Balan.

Balan stared into the fire. His body hurt and the stitches in his lip were uncomfortable. His mind was in turmoil. He glanced at the scout and wished that Tristan would believe him. At that moment Tristan rose from his chair. He stopped beside Balan's bed and gazed at him for a long time. Balan watched him warily. Tristan's eyes hardened. "You can consider yourself lucky that Arthur intervened on your behalf, boy. I would have kept you at it much longer. And next time I will." Turning abruptly, Tristan left the room. Balan stared after him. Tears he had been holding back began to spill from his eyes.

When Dagonet returned to check on him, Balan was sobbing desperately into his blankets. The gentle giant sat down in Tristan's chair and remained with Balan until the boy had cried himself to sleep. Tristan did not return that night.

TBC

AN: Needless to say, I oppose any form of child abuse. I realize that this chapter might be confronting. But it is also the reality of those days. Balan is growing up in violent times, among battle-hardened warriors. ~Josje