A stressful reckoning

Evhan was fuming, his grey eyes wild. "Let me go, father ! I will teach him…"

The boy's voice broke and Tristan grabbed his forearms, bending over to level him with an intense look. He knew flames danced behind his amber eyes, the rage that threatened to spill barely contained. The same anger reflected in his elder son's body whose body trembled. He could have cut him down with a simple barb; did a child of twelve really expect to cut down a full grown man ? But he thought better of it; Evhan was too shocked by the news to think straight.

"Don't fret, boy. It is my role, and I will gladly do the teaching."

His voice was dangerous, laden with venom and anticipation. Tomorrow, Marcus would taste his blade and soak the ground with crimson blood. His boy suddenly dislodged his arms from his tight grip, indignant as he shouted in the corridor.

"But she's my mother !"

The scout's voice rose.

"Evhan!"

So scarcely did he shout that the boy froze, rage discarded for fear. Great, he's now frightened his son. Tristan released a sigh to expel the rightful wrath that coiled in his guts. The long expiration caused his shoulders to relax, and he was satisfied to see his eldest's jaw unclench.

"Isolde is my wife. You weren't even a thought when we bound our hands together. I am, and was her first protector, and it will remain so until I die. Understood ?"

The mention of his potential death caused Evhan's eyes to widen, but he stiffly nodded, bending to his father's stubborn will. He was much too young to understand what it meant to be married. To devote your thoughts, your mind, your body and your life to another. Isolde was his responsibility. Now and ever. And he certainly hoped he wouldn't die too early. Tomorrow, though, wasn't the day he would bite the dust; tomorrow, Marcus would get what he deserved under the watchful eye of his friend and King.

But he understood the boy, and looked for a compromise.

"You can attend the duel, if you wish."

The boy's features brightened, and Tristan marvelled that he bore Isolde's mouth rather than his. That his eyes were so much clearer than his. He was his mother's son through and through…

"Really ?"

The scout nodded grimly, his hand twitching for the dagger he wanted to plunge in Marcus' heart. Isolde wouldn't be too happy with him, but he knew Madayne would want to be present. That daughter of his was a fighter…. He could hardly fault Evhan, who was older by a year, to keep away from the slaughter.

"You're twelve. Hardly a boy now. If you want to witness Marcus' demise at my hands, you are welcome."

"All right. I'll ask mother…"

His hand landed upon the boy's shoulder, effectively blocking his path.

"Don't. She is too ashamed to face you."

And those words scorched his tongue, for she should never have known such pain. Evhan's eyebrows scrunched, just like Isolde's did when she was bewildered.

"But why ? She's done nothing, it's that despicable man that…"

Tristan sighed again, a weary sound that puzzled his son.

"Someday, Evhan, you will understand what it means for a woman to be forced. Remember this, the pain it caused your mother. If you ever take a woman to your bed, make sure she is willing, and not too drunk to ever regret it. Then… the rest is in yours hands."

And he patted the boy's shoulder awkwardly – the gods help him when his children started having love interest. He wasn't too keen on having to deal with his daughter's suitors. Tristan shrugged as his long legs took him down the corridor. Bah, he would scare them away easily enough. Only in adversity would Madayne find her match.

Isolde was sitting. Not by choice; her legs were shaking so violently that she couldn't keep upright. Madayne, her only daughter, sat by her side. Summoned by her father, the little blond lady held her mother's hand tightly. Rumours would spread fast and far. At eleven, she needed to know the truth to be able to handle gossip. Isolde respected her husband for his insightfulness. He protected their children the way he saw fit, but didn't shield them from reality. Knowing what to look for was the best of protections.

Yet, she couldn't help but feel ashamed. Sir Tristan, standing tall and proud in front of her, only had to take a look at her face to know what dark thoughts raged under her skull.

"You are not at fault and never will be, wife. Once this despicable man is dead, people will know that you were only a victim."

The shaking resumed, and Madayne circled her waist to squeeze it tight.

"Don't cry, Mother. Father will avenge you."

But the tears kept flowing, upsetting the little lady by her side. Yet, Isolde couldn't have stopped them if her life depended on it.

"I'm sorry, my little girl" she hiccuped. "Sorry that you had to be the witness of my demise."

"I'm not a little girl, Mum."

Tristan knelt, his deep eyes considering his daughter with pride. Despite the shame, Isolde could only smile. Who knew the fearsome scout would create such a strong bond with his eldest? How she loved him! Suddenly, the idea to lose him crushed her chest, and she threw herself in his arms. Squeezing tight, she cried.

"I don't want harm to come to you. Don't fight for my life, husband."

A discrete sigh passed Tristan's lips before his callous hands cupped her cheeks. Then he plunged his gaze into hers, his intent so strong that she couldn't look away.

"Isolde, I have fought fifteen years for Rome. What good am I if I cannot fight to avenge you, and defend your honour."

But instead of feeling relieved, Isolde paled, her hand trembling.

"I fear my reputation is done for now."

Gossip would stain her family now, her daughter just as much as her sons. And despite the fact that she knew what people gossiped about, the little ones had, until now, been protected. People were too afraid of the scout to spread lies about his children. The feel of Tristan's lips upon her temple called her back to reality, and she lifted her eyes to find the King. His green eyes were sad, and angry when he addressed her.

"I am sorry for what happened to you, Lady Isolde. Know that you have my deepest respect."

Isolde' eyebrows shot upwards, but she was too shaken to ask the meaning of his words. Then the King turned to Tristan, and a muscle ticked in his jaw as he faced his trusted scout.

"Tristan? My prayers are with you."

Tristan's lips lifted in a feral sneer; the predator was unleashed.

"Save them, I don't need it."

Unfazed by Tristan's rejection, the King only nodded. Stoic, like those leaders of old that had carved history.

"Nonetheless I will pray for justice. Deal it swiftly."

Isolde bit her lip; she had no doubt that Tristan would cut Marcus down before he could even lift his sword. Despite his apparent aloofness, the scout had never lost his reflexes. Bless him for being so skilled; even if Marcus was well trained in the arts of the gladius, he didn't stand a chance. This time, the haughty Roman had attacked the wrong person.

"As for court, Lady Isolde, my Queen knows the right people to spread the word of your courage and dedication. Be assured that she will do what is necessary."

Arthur's words caused her head to jerk up, the meaning taking a little time to dawn upon her. Why would the King go to such length to preserve her? Granted, Tristan was like family, but she only was his wife; she had never done anything to warrant such grace. Blinking back tears, Isolde bowed to her King. Beside her, she could feel Madayne bristling on the bench. The youth wasn't used to the intimidating presence of Arthur yet. If only she knew how, sometimes, Tristan rambled against his stubbornness, and called him all sort of names. How they sometimes rolled under the table together, pissing drunk… But he was the King nonetheless.

"Thank you, sire", Isolde said.

And Arthur bowed his head to her. The King, bowing to her !

"No, I thank you for the joy you have brought to my scout."

His words filled her with courage, for if there was anything she had never regretted in her life, it was her marriage to Tristan. Lifting her head, she dared sending Arthur a square look.

"He deserved all of it."

The King's eyes drifted to Tristan, a gleam of fondness alighting them as the scout checked his cutlass.

"Aye, he did."

It was then than Isolde understood why the King took such good care of their family. Tristan was like a brother; his happiness meant a lot to him.

"I'll see you tomorrow morning. Get some rest," he concluded.

Then he turned away and left, his swishing cape dancing around his boots.