Bathouse

Five days passed since the knight delivered her upon the seamstress doorstep. Enough for her bruises to start fading. Enough for a clean-up – there was no bathtub here – some needed sustenance, and for her mind to come to terms with the situation. Enough for her to accept that Felicia, the roman noble, had died.

Isolde. An Irish name, to honour her roots. This is who she would be now.

Her long, reddish hair was braided now, hidden under a cap. Her coarse woollen dress had belonged to another; it hid her form well enough, as well as her former status. Rendered her a shadow amongst the people of the fort, head bowed, a servant of little lineage. Her mother always said that nobility was earned, not inherited, and that it came from within. Now, there was nothing that could remotely sell her ties to a Roman family. Except for her hands, fine and delicate, so unlike a working woman.

While the seamstress berated her about her choice of company, the middle-aged woman couldn't be happier with her new apprentice. And albeit she suspected Isolde to be of noble descent – stitches never lied and it certainly left nothing to be desired – she wouldn't say or word nor ask a question.

The seamstress' fear of the scout was enough to refrain her curiosity … but not so much that she couldn't warn her young charge about his ways. They said him cruel, ruthless and sadistic. The silent knight certainly could instill fear in anyone's heart with barely a look: imagination supplied the rest. But the seamstress owed him her life and that of her son, so she kept her mouth shut.

Isolde, for her part, wasn't more talkative than the taciturn scout. She listened, nodded and learnt the tricks of an experienced professional with curiosity. Before leaving, Tristan had pressed how important it was that no one knew about her, not even his Commander Artorius Castus for he would be bound to bring her back home. Isolde could only agree; if her father had an inkling of her location, she would be dragged back to her despicable betrothed.

As the needle flew in her hands, thread mending fabric much coarser than she was used to, Isolde wondered if the scout had forgotten about his proposal. She'd spotted him in the morning, hair askew and weapons at the ready on his long leather vest; he was buying apples at a stall. The pronounced limp in his gait had caused her to worry; had he been wounded that day?

In her daze – the aftermath of her ordeal – she had forgotten to look for signs. Now that she replayed their encounter without the veil of fear, she couldn't help but remember his winces and hisses of pain as they rode. And his slightly stiff manner when he'd knelt beside her, his warm fingers replacing the dress over her exposed legs. A frown marred her features when he left the market.

Would he keep his promise? The seamstress alone wouldn't be able to pass the message on; the little shop saw too little people for them to start spreading a rumour, and she wasn't daft enough to sing it at the top of her lungs. She wasn't about to dub herself the "scout's woman" in the market place; shyness and upbringing recoiled at the very notion. After all, his reputation was fiery; messing with it could only be dangerous. Better to let him handle things his way; he knew the terrain – the fort and its people – and her enemies.

Little did she know that, late in this afternoon, Tristan was scrubbing himself raw at the bathing house. Washing his skin with a little more care than was necessary. All because now, at long last, his wounds were clear of infection and he could soak in warm water. Nothing to do with his hesitation to bring the new apprentice to the tavern, of course. Could he let it go? Trust the seamstress to keep her safe in her little shop, and fend the Romans away? No. He'd spotted her at the market out of the corner of his eye; he wasn't the only one. Others had followed her lovely silhouette, eying the tiny waist and assumed long legs with envy.

Despite the coarse woollen dress and the modest neckline, despite the handkerchief covering her reddish hair, her noble poise and features stood out. Her posture, especially, sold her breeding; it oozed out of her form. He'd been truthfully surprised that she had not protested about being an apprentice at the seamstress. Most Roman nobles would have sneered at the idea to work for one's living. Instead, she had thanked him profusely, grateful for the opportunity for food, shelter and a proper work.

Good.

The woman was clever enough to possess some clarity; she was under no illusion of what could become of a lovely and lonely maiden in the streets. Many men would pay to subdue a former noble, relishing in the possibility to humiliate one of the well-off girls they usually had to bow to. The opportunity for a well-deserved revenge…

Working at the seamstress could save her life is she played the part properly. The memory of the proud gleam in her eyes, though, told him of her resilience. She was bound to be noticed by others than himself. Even if he was the most perceptive of them all; it only gave him a head start.

Frowning intently, the scout stood in the bathhouse, water pooling at his waist. Angry red lines marred his chest and back on the left side, dark hair covering his pectorals and lower belly. His long hair dripped along his lean muscles, braids undone, droplets forming a trail along his upper back before plunging back in the pool.

Romans looked upon his form with contempt, disgust barely hidden in their dark eyes. Beardless and shaved; he was a barbarian to them, a Sarmatian dog. The wildest of his brothers – if not the biggest –a savage beast to them delicate overgrown children. Romans loved little boys, purity and flawless skin. They loved their women depilated, white milky skin upon soft skin. Not unlike the seamstress's apprentice.

Fire pooled beneath his sore muscles, fists tightening under the surface.

A word was a word. No matter if it complicated things. Tristan was no coward.

Sir Tristan's appearance at the shop sent the seamstress into a fit of coughing. And despite her fear, the little woman's protectiveness soared forth, displaying courage that earned the knight's respect just as well as his ire.

— "Are you sure it is safe to associate her with the likes of you?" she glared at the man.

Isolde gasped at the blatant insult, her reddening cheeks – he had asked her to come to the tavern ! – swiftly reflecting her anger. The knight didn't need her indignation for he strode to the seamstress and faced her, his body swift and supple. His voice was as calm as the surface of the lakes littering the countryside, smooth and deep. But one couldn't ignore the darkness that lurked within.

— "She is my woman. She will do as I see fit."

The seamstress shrunk under his glare, and Isolde started to understand what people meant regarding the scout. No more was said as he ripped the cap out of her braids to throw it on the counter before leading her in the cobbled street. The evening was mild, the weather undetermined as was his wont to be in this island. The setting sun promised for a colder night, but for the moment, an orange glow bathed the fort with its glorious hues.

She knew the light would set fire to her hair, but didn't expect it to paint Tristan's darker one with rusty colours. Discreetly, she stole a glance at the man beside her. Washed and tamed, braids neatly done, Tristan's hair looked almost soft. His tattoos stood out upon the defined cheekbones – for once free of loose strands – and his eyes ranged from grey to amber. He was much taller than she was, and his proud gait certainly didn't make him more accessible. Still, she could discern the remains of a limp.

Her fingers reached for his arm and the knight stilled, sending her an inquisitive look. Damn, his scrutiny was so intense that she almost forgot her name. Which, in retrospect, could be an idea.

— "You didn't tell me you were hurt, Sir."

He accepted the title without protest this time.

— "It wasn't relevant," he responded smoothly.

His voice washed over her like the silks she used to wear before her demise, and she could only comply when he asked her – no, ordered – to turn around. She felt long fingers deftly untying the cord of her braids, his hands running into the long reddish strands to splay them over her back. His gestures were gentle, focused, and so intimate that… Registering the shock, Isolde turned around abruptly.

— "What …?"

— "People must recognise you easily. It is a statement that you belong to me."

Belong, what a horrible concept! Scrunching her nose, the young woman nodded, passing a hand into her mane to entangle the curls with the force of habit. Tristan's eyes followed her movement, his expression unreadable until he seemed to shake out of his haze and started walking anew. Well … striding anew, for his legs were awfully long.

Rather than yell at him to slow down, Isolde reached for his arm and linked it through hers, hoping it would give him the measure of her own steps. It did, but the gesture caused his eyebrows to disappear in the midst of his mane. Sir Tristan probably wasn't used to having a damsel hanging from his arm. What about the women he bedded casually ? Did they not claim his arm as well ? Perhaps not. Isolde had to admit that she was out of her depth here.

For a moment, they progressed in the streets under watchful gazes. It was oddly comfortable to walk by his side, her fingers looped around his leather vest. For the first time, Isolde realised that she trusted a man. And so, she gave him her most trusted secret.

- "Isolde"

The knight gave her an interrogative glance.

- "This is my name, now"

He nodded, and without hassle the subject was closed. There were many frowns upon people's face, disapproving, curious and incredulous alike. Perhaps she was wrong … perhaps she shouldn't. Isolde shrunk beside the knight, almost starting when he addressed her.

— "You need to play the part. My brothers in arms are rowdy and crude. If you want my protection, you must be ready to face them."

— "All right. I am ready."

Tristan lifted an eyebrow – the challenge gleaming in his eyes – and she suddenly noticed how faintly marked they were. Like a touch of a bird's feather hoovering over his amber eyes, a shade of dark blonde usually buried under his unruly fringe.

— "Then I will make my claim upon you."

Isolde shivered.