Vanora

Ten days later, Tristan found, lying upon his bed, a brand-new shirt whose collar had been patiently embroidered. Eyes widening, he recognised the intricate braids from his tribe, the Iazygues patterns somehow mingling into bird feathers to reinforce the cloth that he ripped more often than not. A very personal touch to a very personal need; shirts that didn't tear off when he removed them forcefully. Isolde would know, of course, because she mended them more often than not. The craftsmanship was remarkable, speaking of long hours of work in the candlelight.

The present caused him to slump on the bed, the piece of cloth hanging limply in his hands while he considered his next move. His little lady was trying to mend their broken bond like she mended his torn shirts. And the result, well… The result was so beautiful that it nearly called tears to his eyes. It meant so much to him, the reminder that he was still, despite this stupid service, a Iazygues chieftain, but also something more. A tamer of wild beasts, a scout, a warrior. A man she trusted and cared for until he lashed at her in the despair of his loss over a comrade … or in fear of her expectations.

How could someone pass on such an intense message with needlework?

She was an intelligent, refined and cultured woman with the strength to make a new life for herself despite being torn out of her home in difficult circumstances. Sewing and embroidery were the symbols of integrating her old skills into her current condition. Maybe they were not so different after all.

Perhaps … he should make an effort.

After a trip to the bath house, Tristan adorned his new shirt, tightened his braids to keep loose strands from his face and limped down to the seamstress' lair. Isolde received him with a smile that didn't reach her eyes, wariness clearly writ upon her fair features. And for once, Tristan paused, realising how beautiful he found "his" lady.

She didn't send him away when he offered his arm. He didn't apologise, not really. But the sight of him wearing her embroidered shirt called some light into her eyes.

And so, Isolde and Tristan resumed their masquerade courtship, meeting in public for the sake of it, taking some time, when the weather allowed it, to tread the paths around the fort. A perfect way to keep tongues wagging. Or so they thought.

By then, Isolde feared so much for Tristan's safety that she sometimes awaited their return beside Vanora, behind the inner courtyard's iron fence. Bors' lover belly had grown and emptied once more, another baby added to their brood. The tenth. A tentative friendship had struck between the two women. Other wenches occasionally joined them, but neither stayed much. Especially Lancelot's little ladies who changed from mission to mission. Poor sod.

But Vanora was always there, surrounded by her noisy brood, and Isolde sometimes wondered if she would ever have a family. For the moment, though, it was all a matter of staying alive. Tristan kept the pretense for her sake; it worked better than expected. Nary a man looked her way, not even Roman officers. She was Tristan's woman. Period. Married or not, she was off limits, not to be touched. And despite the protection it brought her, the reasons behind it broke her heart.

Yes, Tristan was a feared warrior who presented a stern and practical exterior to the world. His soul was burdened, even more since Percival's death. But he wasn't unfeeling. How could people believe those horrid tales about him? Why didn't he prove them wrong, showed them he had a sense of humour that he could be kind and gentle?

The first day Isolde and Vanora had spoken, the fiery redhead has asked her.

"So you're Tristan's woman, right?"

A sharp intake of breath.

"Yes."

Vanora had watched her with curiosity, trying to assess how this could be possible.

"How is it?"

"It is good. He is a good man."

The redhead had nodded.

"Aye, I know. But he doesn't, and neither do the others."

From that day, the two women awaited for "their" men whenever they got back from missions. Fortunately, Tristan always passed the gates unscathed. Well, mainly. She was never called to his bedside in the healing house, and they kept meeting once in a while at the tavern where his brothers teased them to death.

Except for Dagonet, who always bore holes into her whenever she sat on Tristan's lap. Curse the silent giant for his perceptiveness. Did he know that their courtship was a ploy? Realise how compromised she had become when it came to Tristan's well-being? The feelings that seeped through her every time her body touched his?

Since no men courted her, Tristan had asked, one day, if she wanted to be released to pursue a man at the fort. Isolde had levelled him with a glare so intense that the scout nearly squirmed.

"I want no other man."

This is what she had said… No "other".

Tristan had mulled over it for three months. What could she possibly mean? The scout, sensing danger, had refrained from asking more details. There were paths that should be avoided at all costs. Women's feelings were one of those.

But today … today that arrow had nearly taken him out. The tear upon the collar of his vest could have been a tear in his jugular, had his instincts not warned him of the incoming bolt. It was a horrible way to die; nearly the same shot that had taken Percival a year ago. He might have drowned in his own blood…

A shudder went up his spine, and Tristan caressed his mare's neck to let her know all was well. It had been a close call. Very close... too close. And what of Isolde? If he died, that foolish woman would have lost her protector. And since she refused to take another, a real suitor, what would happen to her? Could he count upon his brothers to take care of her? Their golden hearts might push them to do so, in honour of the fallen scout, but after a month, six months, a year … would they forget? It took barely a few moments to harm a lone woman at the fort. And he knew the Romans eyed her greedily. As if they could recognise their own kind. Half of it, anyway.

Tristan, for one, didn't see the Roman in her. The dark red of her hair was so exotic, so enthralling. He saw beauty, and rage. The wildness of the Scots, far over the sea.

"You're bleeding again," came Dagonet's voice.

Tristan took the proffered cloth with a nod of gratitude. That bolt had grazed more than his leather vest. Beside Dagonet, Bors peeked at his neck and scrunched his nose.

"Vanora'd kill me if I returned like this."

"Isolde will not be happy," Dagonet stated.

Tristan cocked his head aside, then winced. What did the giant mean? Of all of them, he was the only one who knew their courtship was fake. The knights bore holes into him; they expected him to respond. So, Tristan pressed the cloth at his neck and sighed. Conversation, how boring.

"No, she will not."

What else could he say? Where Vanora yelled and tempered, Isolde would purse her lips and mend the garment with a huff. Perhaps blanch at the realisation that death had brushed past him. Sometimes, she almost seemed to care for him. Her hands lingered upon his shoulders when she sat on his lap, and he had to admit that she now moulded around him as if his thighs had been created for her.

"You are a lucky bastard, Tristan."

Lancelot's interjection caused the scout to frown. If only he knew that nothing untoward had ever happened between them! That first kiss was the only one he had dared planting on her lips. To renew the experience would be … disrespectful, at best. The reverence Isolde showed him was welcome, especially coming from a half-Roman; he endeavoured to return the favour. Even if, sometimes, he wondered what she would feel like. Isolde was a beautiful woman … the most beautiful woman of the fort, actually. He wasn't about to desecrate her or pressure her. A word was a word. And if his fellow brothers still believed in their ploy, all the better.

After all, their 'courtship' had lasted enough for them to know each other more than anyone else at the fort. Isolde had become a friend. One he didn't sleep with, and if his brothers wondered why his woman was not heavy with child already, they cautiously kept their doubts hidden. Tristan could be formidable when pissed; no one dared crossed him with personal questions. No one save that annoying Lancelot. The dark knight had pushed his horse forward, seeking his gaze.

"It's always the quiet ones that are the wildest in bed."

"Lance!"

Dagonet's interjection, father like, failed at covering the storm that brewed in the scout's eyes. Tristan spurred his own mount forward, wrath seizing his guts for a reason he couldn't pinpoint. Damn fort, damn Romans, damn Lancelot for admiring Isolde so much! That cad could never keep his tongue to himself … but he sure as hell wouldn't lay a finger on his woman!

Hawk screeched, asking for permission to join him, and Tristan decided to let it all go. Free, braids dancing in the wind, he welcomed his beloved bird upon his arm. His mare danced slightly, nervous, but Tristan hushed her with a rub of his legs. A shaman's son, tamer of beasts, they called him. Would he follow Gawain and Galahad to their home tribes once his service was over?

What would become of the little seamstress when, eighteen months from now, he would take flight, never to return to this accursed place?

When he dismounted in the courtyard, Tristan's eyes roamed to the iron fence, catching Isolde's gaze instantly. Despite the cap covering her reddish hair, she couldn't be mistaken. He wasn't looking forward to giving her his leather vest to mend … her smile would, for sure, turn into a frown. For the moment, Isolde's eyes were shining, her features relieved when she realised that most blood covering him wasn't his. Faithful, just like Vanora. Tristan frowned, at loss once more. How dedicated could a woman be to a scheme?