Madayne

There was her prey. Unruly mane, warrior's braid strewn haphazardly upon his head, eyes of grey and marron mingling – just like hers. His mare obeyed to his every whim without even the need of a word. They said he was son of a shaman, a tamer of beasts. But Madayne knew the truth; he was the beast. The fearsome scout, the one man that could reduce anyone to tears with a glare, the only knight whose companion was a deadly Hawk. And the man who had felled the Saxon leader with a simple flick of his wrist; the dagger landing true.

The bird wasn't perched upon his shoulder. Good. It would only make the attack easier. Hand and feet attached to the wall, Madayne laid in wait. Like the mighty predator she was, body supple and feet light, she crawled upon the rising ledge. In a moment, the man would pass the door, offering her his exposed back. In just a moment…

Hawk screeched, high in the sky. A warning.

And the wall was treacherous, or perhaps it protected its own; the knight of the round table, the mighty guards of King Arthur. The tip of her foot slipped on an uneven rock, and Madayne was sent tumbling down with a cry of distress. The ground was about to greet her, and she closed her eyes in fright. But she never touched it, for a sharp tug upon her leg prevented her from breaking her skull altogether.

"Madayne !", Tristan growled, dragging her across his mare. "What do you think you are doing?"

Oh, he was angry. Furious, even. His eyes glared daggers, the storm barely repressed, his jaw clenched. Madayne recoiled, tears forming in her eyes. She swallowed then; always take a scolding with honour, her father said.

"I wanted to surprise you", she hiccuped. "Forgive me."

"Are you out of your mind, child?" he hissed. "You nearly broke your neck!"

The scout was panting; his heart had skipped a beat for a moment, and he could only thank his sharp reflexes – and Hawk – that his daughter had survived. Nearly four years old, and he would have buried her. His eyes closed for a moment, the image of his beloved redhead with her skull opened right before his eyes. Isolde would have killed him.

"It's not her fault, Sir. It was a bet."

Tristan lifted his eyes to the brood of Bors' children, finding the elder boy. Seventh, if he recalled properly. The boy had some guts to stand up to him.

"I don't care whose fault it is", he seethed. "If you want to climb, you do not fall."

The ten-year-old nodded solemnly; his knees were trembling in the face of the scout's wrath. His father had told him stories, terrifying stories of his youth. He knew Tristan was a man you'd better not cross. And so, he, and his siblings blanched when the knight ground out.

"And if you ever bet on my children again, you'll regret it."

His words sunk easily, Bors' brood nodding in unison. Except for a mop of brown hair, worn by a three-year-old girl whose features were the spitting image of Vanora.

"Hey! My papa will beat you if you speak bad to us."

"Elya! shush!" seventh scolded, aghast.

Amused by the gall of this little Vanora, Tristan bent over his horse to give her his most intimidating stare.

"I can kill your dad every day of the week, girl."

"No, he's bigger than you. You can't kill my dad!" she responded, chin lifted defiantly while her brothers trembled in their breeches.

This time, Tristan smiled.

"That's because I never tried to."

Then he turned to his daughter, and his features hardened.

"How did you escape your mother, little monster?"

"Mama is sick."

Tristan's blood ran cold, and he set Madayne in front of him, spurring his mare into gallop. Sick! All manners of thoughts ran through his mind, and he didn't even drop his mount to the stable before he jumped down. The scar upon his calf sent a sharp pang up his leg but Tristan's mind was too far gone to care. Worried, the scout stormed into his house, only to startle Isolde who had fallen asleep on the table. She blinked with a groan, her eyes unfocused.

Beside her, Evhan, five and a half years old sat dejectedly. His grey eyes – inherited from Tristan's father – widened at his sight; the child's features relaxed. Had the scout not been so worried, he would have marvelled, once more, that his children always welcomed him with relief. The fearsome knight was a different man at home. Or perhaps home was the only place where people could read him properly.

Isolde, eyes blazing with fury, stood at once to scold Madayne.

"You, insufferable child! Where the hell have you been?", she hissed.

His girl stood still, and his pride flared at seeing that she didn't even try to hide behind his legs. And so, he turned to Isolde.

"Peace, woman. I already gave her a tongue lashing. What has you so riled up?"

Isolde huffed, then started pacing the small expense of their living room, her feet digging a trench upon the stones. And while she ranted about Madayne and her fondness for turning house upside down, her eating habits, and her stubbornness, Tristan's eyes followed her warily. Aside from the apparent anger, his wife seemed a little pale.

In her hair, the pin he had offered her for their fifth-year anniversary contrasted with the dark reddish ringlets. The scout's heart softened; it had been a costly present, but it pleased her. She wore it often. Bless Arthur for the wages he gave them now; it was weird, somehow, not to be poor. He suspected Arthur to reward them for the years of slavery, but he wasn't about to turn the money down. He had two children to feed, and a wife to keep happy.

Speaking of which, Isolde was still ranting about this and that, her breath short, her eyes still veiled from the impromptu nap she had taken. 'Mama is sick'. Madayne's word echoed in her mind … and Tristan was starting to see a pattern, there. When her anger turned to tears, it only confirmed the scout's suspicions.

Evhan was struck, unused to his mother having such mood swings. A nod to his son told him he could scurry away, and take his sister with him. Flabbergasted, the two children fled the house in a rush. Tristan might have laughed if Isolde had not suddenly swayed on her feet. He caught her just in time –what was it, with the women of this house! – and settled her on a stool. Then, he knelt before her, and caught her cheeks in his hands to force her gaze back to him.

"Isolde, are you pregnant?", he asked.

"Yes, again!"

A wolfish grin bloomed upon his face. She was so beautiful, heavy with his children. His heart swelled with love and pride once more, and he couldn't help but tease her.

"You need to stop making children, wife."

But instead of laughing, Isolde glared. Ah, right, he would need to adjust his sense of humour for the next nine months. He wasn't looking forward to the mood swings.

"You know what you need to stop doing, sir," she accused.

Over his dead body. If there was something he wasn't ready to do, it was to stop making love to his beautiful wife.

"Go and see the healer for herbs next time."

Isolde huffed, her green eyes flashing in annoyance. Oy, she was really cross!

"If you had paid attention, you would know I've been taking them for the past five years, husband!"

This time, Tristan couldn't help it. He laughed. And while Isolde tried to swat his arm, he jumped out of the way to clear his mind. Three children, and too small a house already. And what of Isolde? How was she going to keep Madayne in check with another baby to care for? Especially if the herbs didn't prevent her from making them. His daughter was such a handful !

"We're moving, Isolde. To the castle."

He expected her to yell; she didn't, her eyes roaming the little house that had been their home for the past three years.

"Why?"

"We need more space and you won't be alone when I leave."

Isolde paused, considering the option he was offering. The other knights lived up there with their respective wives. The children could play together, and maids washed the laundry. There also was a cook. The young woman deflated.

"All right. I guess I'll be glad for the help as well."

Phew, storm averted. Tristan gathered Isolde in his arms, watching her lovely features with gratitude. He bestowed a kiss upon her cheek, then nuzzled her neck to take in her scent. She smelt different while pregnant, her fragrance a mix of hers and the baby to come. How had he not realised? His tongue gently traced her jaw, and Isolde whimpered from the desire. Ah… this was another nice perk of pregnancy; a wife willing to undress him at every occasion !

How he loved her, his little wife. Even more now that she was about to grace him with another child. Did she realise the miracle it was to share his features with their spawns?

"Thank you," he whispered in her ear.

Isolde pulled away, her eyes wide. She never understood his gratitude, just like he didn't get it when she thanked him for making love to her. Perhaps now was one of those days where he should elaborate.

"I'm pleased. You are a beautiful mother, and you make beautiful children."

"It's not like I have a choice," she retorted playfully.

But it wasn't a game to him; Isolde had been raised to submit to her husband. How much of this harsh education still lingered in her veins? She had chosen him, ignoring what her upbringing dictated … did she regret it? Did she give him those children out of obligation? She was taking the herbs, after all.

"Don't you?" he asked, breathless.

Tenderness infused her features and she smiled fondly.

"Well, I choose you. I guess you and I mingle beautifully."

Tristan's insecurities fled as he took in the love that shone in her eyes.

"Indeed. Are you afraid, little wife?"

"Yes" she responded, her eyes landing upon the floor.

"Birth?"

He would understand it a thousand times. He had been there through the whole Madayne's birth and a part of Evhan's. He understood – fully – what it entailed to push a baby into the world. Those moments were so difficult to handle. Helpless; the scout couldn't shoulder the pain for her. But it wasn't what Isolde feared.

"No. If you're here, I will manage. But the pregnancy takes a toll on my body, I'm tired, Tristan."

The scout nodded, his tongue darting over his upper lip in thought.

"All right, how much time away do you want after this one?"

Wide green eyes greeted his statement, followed by a gasp of horror.

"I'd rather have twenty children than have you shun me, or visit a wench's bed."

Tristan sneered, appalled that she would think this of him. He had to remind himself that she was pregnant – and emotional – before he shook her like a tree.

"Foolish woman!"

Isolde blanched, seeing that she had offended him.

"I'm sorry. I'm not thinking straight."

The scout studied his wife for a moment. Married six years, and she still doubted him … or was it herself? Given the Roman's propension to take mistresses, it wouldn't be far-fetched. And so the scout called forth his wisdom, and rather than scold his woman, he trapped her in his gaze.

"No. We, Sarmatians, are faithful to our wives. This is why we are so difficult when it comes to choosing them."