The Reluctant Lady

The door closed behind Tristan with a thud that echoed in the empty chamber. Isolde's heart sank as the sound faded, leaving her alone with the silence. She missed his smile, his laugh, the warmth of his body next to hers. Their days in Camelot were no longer spent side by side like before. Now she hardly saw him, his new role as tax exchequer demanding early mornings and late nights.

She sighed, rising from the vanity chair and glancing in the mirror. Her hair was neatly braided, and make up artfully applied, yet her eyes held a sadness that rouge could not hide. Shedding her nightgown, her gaze drifted to the scar at her waist. A finger traced the smooth pink flesh that wrapped around to her back, reminding her how near to death she had been. He said that he would have followed her not too long after. A shiver coursed through her body at the thought. She had been certain she was dying, only to wake and find herself miraculously alive.

Shaking away those memories, she wrestled with a soft leather bustier corset, buckling the straps on the sides with some difficulty. The fit was snug, but not so tight that she couldn't wield her sword and dagger. And it covered her scar. Pulling on black leather pants and fastening the ties quickly, she then slipped on her boots, lacing them.

She retrieved a dark green outer dress from the wardrobe and slipped her arms though black long, cuffed sleeves. Fastening three buttons at the breasts, she smoothed the skirt. The embroidered outer garment was cut with wide opening in the front exposing her leather trousers. She allowed a half smiled, satisfied with her daring look. The skirt was a compromise to the pink frilly monstrosity that Gwen had offered. This was the closest she would come to wearing a proper dress.

She belted on her sword, then strapped her sheathed dagger to her left thigh. The castle beginning to wake and she could roam freely without curious or disapproving eyes following her. Longing to escape the castle, she slipped into the corridor, torches flickering in their sconces, not yet extinguished from the night before.

The scuff of her boots echoed down the empty stone corridors, but soon faded in her ears. She missed her time as a smuggler, the life unbound by rules of society, living on the edge, and sometimes, hour by hour. They'd laughed after a narrow escape from a bounty hunter once, stargazed in each other's arms on clear nights, celebrated in taverns after successful smuggling runs.

She choked back tears that threatened to fall. She never cried, but things were changing now that they lived in Camelot. Responsibility was creeping up on them and she wasn't sure how she felt about that. She avoided court and social gatherings, spending much of her time, apart from an occasional with the queen. After so many years living hour to hour, this sedentary life felt foreign.

When she was well enough, she'd wandered through parts of the castle, the aroma of fresh bread wafting in the air, squeezing through the flowing lanes of guests and servants, and ducking into magnificent rooms to explore made accessible to visitors. Distant memories of visiting Camelot long ago ebbed into her thoughts.

Distant memories of visiting Camelot long ago ebbed into her thoughts. She was a young child, no more than five, carried in her father's arms as he swiftly navigated the impressive castle. She remembered peering over his shoulder at high arched windows as shafts of light streamed through, illuminating swirling dust motes in the air. Her nose wrinkled at the pungent metallic scent in the corridors, wrinkling further as wisps of smoke brought a strange, sickly-sweet odor.

Her father's face was drawn, his jaw tight. He'd argued with the king, his voice echoing off the cavernous walls. She hadn't understood the adults' words, only knew her father was upset about something. Not long after, that same nauseating odor had filled the air of her father's kingdom, and when she grew older, she learned the repugnant smell was human flesh in the pyres.

She'd buried those grim memories when they fled Cornwall, burying them so deep that no one would ever know her true identity. Especially not Tristan.

Her brisk walk and wandering thoughts came to a sudden halt when she collided with the Gwen at a juncture, both of them gasping with surprise.

"Your majesty," she said, eyes wide and stumbling back before bowing her head. "My apologies."

"No, forgive me," Gwen replied, a hand to her chest. "I was a thousand miles away and not paying attention to my steps. Where are you off to at this hour? And alone?"

"Well, there's a nice somewhat private spot in the royal gardens that's perfect for sword practice. I need to challenge my body once again, have discourse with these taut muscles and stiff limbs. I must regain my coordination and feel cold steel in my hands once more." Her smile was naughty, eyes twinkling with mischief. "Care to join me, my queen?"

Gwen laughed and linked their arms at the elbows, guiding them in the direction of the gardens. "Another time, for sure. And we'll use the training grounds when we do. But please, Isolde. How many times must I ask you to call me Gwen?"

"We're in public," she admonished. "It's proper to address you as queen."

Just a few weeks ago, Gwen was a despondent, young servant shunned by the man she loved in a forest far from here. Isolde remembered telling her not to lose hope, that love was stronger than anything. She was please that it proved to be true, that Gwen was a queen now with a future as bright as the sun.

"I suppose," Gwen shrugged. "But right now, it's just the two of us."

They walked slowly in comfortable silence, a sweet aroma from the second level kitchens wafting in the air the closer they came to it. Isolde's stomach groaned just as Gwen noticed her clothes, and Isolde's cheeks flushed red. A servant girl crossed the intersection they were approaching without glancing their way.

"You know, all the women are talking about your wardrobe. It's scandalous, they say."

Isolde scoffed with a grin. "I'm sure the men are talking, too. What do you say—Gwen?"

A smile spread across Gwen's lips. "I say that women don't know true liberation until they've worn trousers."

They laughed, both understanding and ignoring the social uproar it stirred when defiant women wore men's clothing.

Walking in silence down the stairwell to the second level and then to the ground level, they rounded to the corridor heading to the east wing. A few more servants passed them, all of them diverting their eyes.

Gwen locked their elbows again, their shadows stretching long on the floor ahead from the flickering torches. "Have you thought about what I asked yesterday?"

"I've tried not to," Isolde replied with a roll of her eyes.

Gwen laughed. "Is it that bad?"

Crisp morning air and tweeting birds met them in the courtyard as they entered, the amalgam of an abundance of scented flowers twitching her nose.

"Well and truly." They laughed again, Isolde feeling a warmth inside toward her newest friend.

"It would mean so much to me if you would agree. And there's still time for you to prepare, though you'll have to wear a proper dress."

Isolde bit her lip, worry on her brow. Rubbing the embroidered fabric between her fingers, she gazed at bright pink peonies bordering the walk. The king and queen had done so much for Tristan and her and this was the only thing that Gwen had requested.

"Very well," she acquiesced. "But I lay the consequences at your feet, my queen."

Gwen smiled. "A burden I'd be honored to bear."

She felt cornered in a hard place. Her shoulders tensed, her gut turned to stone. She'd be surrounded by nobles from Cornwall who might recognize her and had no idea if her father, if in attendance, would do to her for running away.