Marcus

The knight completed another turn, lifting his arm anew to give way to his new partner when a sense of dread invaded his senses. At once, his hand flew to his dagger, his eyes searching his wife. It didn't take long for him to find Isolde. She stood, motionless, her features frozen and pure horror in her eyes. Tristan's legs started moving before he understood the situation.

Smack!

The shock of a woman colliding against his chest barely annoyed him and he brushed her woman aside without even granting her a glance. His long strides brought him to Isolde in an instant; she was facing a Roman. Beardless, short black hair and an air of regality; a blasted noble! The man stood, a smug smile upon his fine features, his dark eyes gleaming with malevolence. Beside them, the music still ran albeit the dancers were disorganised; the pattern was broken now.

Tristan stood to his full height, towering over the Roman who didn't lose his smug smile. The knight's hand snaked around Isolde' waist, squeezing her side to convey his support. She was shaking; fury descended upon him like an angel of death, hot fire coursing through his veins. Whatever the man had done was dire enough! There would be hell to pay, be it Christian or Roman. Sharp canines showed as he growled.

"What have you done to my wife?"

A scoff was his answer, and as the flute eventually died down, Tristan couldn't help but worry. Isolde' silence did not bode well; the last time he'd seen her speechless was the day he had found her on the road after her assault.

"Wife?", the roman sing-songed.

The false surprise didn't fool Tristan; the man already knew. And his dark eyes lingered upon Isolde' pale face, a dirty smirk still in place. The scout barely refrained from punching the man in the face for his gall, choosing instead to lash out.

"You would do well to show some respect."

The Roman slightly bowed, mockery still etched upon his features. The slight lines of his face, the beardless chin and the proud posture told him he was probably his age. And used to be in charge. The typical Roman he avoided at all cost. Had the man realised whom he addressed? Whom he dared mock? For despite his very fit physique, he still was a head shorter than himself, and Tristan was still Arthur's best swordsman.

Shaking with anger, the knight caught a glimpse of Gawain's tawny hair. Good. People had stopped dancing altogether, some circling them as they realised something was wrong. Damn all those curious minds who would spread gossip about his wife! Voyeurs and ill wishers alike; who knew what rumours would run this very same night?

"Pardon me, sir knight. I only wished to warn you."

His tone was sweeter than honey, yet the roman's eyes were those of a snake. Tristan's tongue darted to his upper lip; the sign that his patience was short. Glaring, he detached the words slowly.

"Cease your ramblings and leave…"

But the man would have none of it, and now, silence filled the great hall. Tristan internally cursed, wondering if he should throw Isolde into Gawain's arms and release his cutlass. But then, the crowd parted to make way for the King. Tristan's eyes only granted him a look before returning to the sneaky Roman.

"It is my duty, after all, to give you the sad news. To show my respect to a great knight of the round table"

Behind him, Arthur stood regally. He spared a glance with his knight, a frown marring his features. By his side, Guinevere stood still, her posture tense. But not as much as Tristan who seemed prepared to strike.

"Of what do you speak of, Marcus?" Arthur asked with a soothing tone.

The Roman cocked his head, surprised to be facing the great King. A bow dripping with condescension greeted his question, and when Marcus lifted his head anew, he released his venom.

"My King. I regret to impart such news, but the woman you call Lady Isolde is nothing but pure. The reasons I know of it is that she slept with me before marrying your knight, then fled her father's home in shame."

"Shut up!" Tristan almost shouted. "My wife's affairs are nothing to you."

Arthur felt the warning roll about in the room like a storm about to erupt, the thunder of Tristan's voice enough for everyone to step back. But the Roman had decided to play his cards to the end, anger and resentment dripping from his voice.

"I am sorry, my friends, for those grave news."

And there laid the worst of mistakes as he set a compassionate hand upon Tristan's arm.

"I understand your anger," he whispered, like a confidence.

Arthur cringed, his eyes widening. He knew what was coming and was powerless to stop it. Something flashed in Tristan's eyes as his long fingers snaked out, grabbing the wandering hand and twisting. The Roman let out a cry of pain when the knight forced him to his knees.

"Touch me again and you die," he growled, towering over the offending man.

"Peace!" Arthur exclaimed.

The King's plea echoed in the great hall, a desperate call to his knight. For a long time, nothing happened but the slight whimpering of Marcus, knights, guards and nobles frozen. But despite his seething anger, Tristan eventually let go and took a step back. Because the public needed to believe that the scout responded to the King, because they never knew the arguments that sometimes brewed behind closed doors. Because Arthur was his friend, first and foremost. The King sent his knight a grateful look while the roman nursed his wounded wrist and stood on wobbly legs.

"You married a whore, barbarian," he spat.

The lady Isolde blanched at the insult and Gawain rushed to Tristan's side; probably to prevent him from killing the Roman. Arthur took a sharp breath; it was going to get ugly and he wasn't sure he wanted to stop Tristan from gutting the roman. But instead of uncontrollable rage, a predatory smile lifted a corner of the scout's lips. An unsettling expression he had only seen before a battle.

"Do you hear that, Gawain?" he drawled, his voice almost giddy.

The blond knight nodded, his jaw clenched.

"Loud and Clear."

Tristan nodded thoughtfully, the gleam in his eyes nearly unbearable for those who knew him. Straightening, the knight spoke, his smooth voice contrasting with the purpose of his words.

"Marcus," he said, punctuating the word with a slight bow.

The Roman's dark eyebrows lifted in a hopeful expression, but Arthur knew what was coming. Ten years at court had taught Tristan a little dramatics, and a shudder ran through his spine. Bless God he never had to battle his own scout.

"For your insult to my wife, I challenge you to a duel. As for the accusation of rape, this fight shall be to the death. There can be no substitute."

There, the hammer had fallen. Marcus gasped, and whispers echoed among the assistance. Arthur, like many others, could only wonder what Tristan meant. The scout's body simmered with anticipation, his fingers dancing around his cutlass. Beside him, Isolde' cheeks were aflame, her head lowered in shame.

Shame… How come …? Rape ! All blood left his face when Arthur understood. So many times he had wondered about the little seamstress who has stolen his scout's heart. Albeit he had learnt, years later, that she had fled her roman home, he had never known why. Questions he never asked. Facing the ugly truth, Arthur's green eyes hardened, his jaw clenching as the roman exclaimed his disagreement.

"Surely you jest, sir. The accusation of rape is unfounded."

The lady Isolde lifted her head then, and Arthur could only stare at her tear-streaked cheeks. And albeit her voice wavered, she did not flinch as she addressed the man who had probably stolen her virginity.

"I hereby accuse you, formally, of rape in the year 475 AD during our betrothal. My husband, Sir Tristan, is entitled to defend my honour."

Marcus blanched then; he probably wasn't expecting this. Turning to Arthur in hopes of appealing to the higher authority, his incredulous expression fell. As King, his composure didn't falter, but as a man, Arthur was appalled. Betrothed! The man had raped his betrothed before they could take the vows, forcing her to flee her own house. This could not be borne! His expression turned thunderous as he spoke:

"So be it. Tomorrow, two bells after dawn, you shall fight and God shall be judge as per the laws of my kingdom. In the meantime, you will be escorted and guarded."

And while Marcus was led out with guards at his back, his yells about diplomacy and Sarmatians dogs echoed in the great hall. Arthur sighed, his eyes meeting those of the scout. Tomorrow, a rape would be punished by death, for he did not doubt Tristan's skills, nor his motivations. For the moment, though, the knight bestowed a gentle kiss to his wife's temple and led her away.

Watching the tall, proud Tristan display his affection to the shaken lady, Arthur hoped that she would find peace. And that his court wouldn't be too harsh with her. Guinevere's hand upon his arm focused his thoughts long enough for an idea to blossom; she would know what how to handle gossip.