The bishop

Tonight was the first day of the rest of her life. Tonight, Tristan would be free. They would be able to proclaim their marriage valid, and he would stop riding out to his death. Would they embark to Sarmatia ? Not at once, of course; they daughter would be born within months. Travelling would have to wait, and Tristan was still undecided. But it didn't matter, for he would be free.

Isolde waited at the knight's favourite table, resting her aching back with Eleven in her arms. The baby was fidgety – hungry - and she gave him her little finger to suckle upon, hoping that Vanora would catch a break to breastfeed her lastborn. Before coming to the fort, Isolde had not had much experience with babies. Now, she could change a nappy while keeping an eye upon the others; thanks to Vanora and her brood.

Yet, there was an experience that she was utterly unprepared for; giving birth. And those tiny pangs that sometimes clenched her belly told her it was close. Thank the Gods Tristan had returned with that blasted Bishop – covered in blood and gore. Those past months had dragged indefinitely. They were like a set of travellers feeling that the journey comes to an end, and the road keeps adding a new bend. Setbacks, skirmishes, and that last mission, to get the Bishop well and alive to gain their discharge papers.

But at last, it was done.

Speaking of the wolf… the knights were coming down the cobbled street now, freshly washed and merry. Merry ? Tristan's eye were wary, and his hand held a golden cup. Isolde's brows knitted; something felt off. So, when they settled at the table – save for Tristan - calling for ale, the young woman gave her knight an interrogative glance. He disposed the golden cup before her, and kissed her lips.

"A present from the romans", he told her.

"Really ? How willingly given ?"

The scout send her a wolfish grin, then patted Eleven's head before taking off to the kitchen to 'steal' an apple in Vanora's reserves. By then, the redhead whirled around to grab her chubby baby for a feeding. Isolde stood to stretch her stiff back. How that woman had carried eleven babies was beyond her, and she still looked like a goddess !

Hobbling – her hip joins ached like hell ! - she joined Tristan in his favourite corner as he watched Gawain and Galahad bicker on a knife's throw. He gave her a piece of his apple without even thinking; nourishing his mate was just a reflex to the alpha wolf. Especially with a cub on the way.

Isolde munched on the juicy fruit, content to be amongst her adopted family when Lancelot popped up and kissed her cheek.

"So, still not ready to leave the scout for a more handsome knight ?"

"I see none", she quipped.

Lancelot assumed a shocked look, his dark eyes sparkling.

"I am wounded, dear lady"

"Beauty is subjective, Lancelot. Go and annoy a lady who can touch her feet, will you ?"

The knight laughed good naturedly, and for a moment, Isolde thought she'd just imagined that something was wrong. All the knights were having a merry time, Tristan teasing his fellow comrades with another careless throw of a dagger that landed dead center, and Lancelot already eying Vanora to see if he could get a rise of Bors. For the moment, though, he wasn't done with Isolde as he pointed to her rounded stomach.

"Are you sure it's his ?"

The seamstress scoffed at his gall, ready to send him away with a slap when Tristan's warm hand slid around her waist. He levelled his fellow knight with a glare, detaching his words very clearly.

"When my daughter eviscerates you, you'll know."

Tristan's smooth voice washed down her spine, making her shiver. She couldn't help it; he was sexy even when threatening someone on her behalf. Lancelot smirked, unaffected by the primitive retort.

"Arthur's God save us from a brood of scouts killers"

The word, sent so carelessly at her beloved, rose Isolde's hackles and she hotly retorted.

"Yeah. I don't hear you complaining when my man saves your sorry ass on the battlefield."

Surprised by the anger directed at him, Lancelot interrogated the scout who only shrugged. But under the fringe of unruly hair, his amber eyes sparkled with mirth, as if to say 'See ? I don't even have to say it'.

"Go away", Isolde uttered through clenched teeth.

Lancelot bowed mockingly, his dark locks bouncing around, but a smirk upon his face.

"Your wish is my command, l'lady scout. But it's a son !"

The dark knight darted away, his laugher reverberating across the crude wooden ceiling. Tristan's hand tensed around her waist, and Isolde leant against over his tall frame.

"Don't listen to him", she soothingly said.

"What if he's right ?", Tristan whispered.

Pursing her lips, Isolde's gaze swiped the room. Somewhere in the tavern, Vanora's many sons were playing a game of tag.

"Then we'll find a solution… Vanora will never accept her sons to be taken away."

Beside her, Tristan nodded thoughtfully. 'Twas a mighty idea, after all, to ask for Vanora's help in this matter. They could form a community, somewhere, hidden from Rome. Emigrate to Ireland for all he cared, as long as his sons were not subjected to roman service. Tristan was game for anything as long as his progeniture didn't have to serve.

"That woman scares me, sometimes.", he whispered in Isolde's hear.

The seamstress whirled around, watching Tristan's face with surprise. He so seldomly expressed fear…

"Yes. I'm glad she's on our side", she concluded.

And the game of throw resumed, ale flowing until Isolde was ready to hop into bed.

But all good things must come to an end, or so it seemed. Or rather, that freedom dream was just too good to be true, for Arthur appeared in the courtyard with an expression that sent a shiver down her spine.

His posture, tense, his face, defeated, the slump of his shoulders told him immediately something was wrong. Then words flowed out of his mouth, crushing the little spark of hope that had just initiated this very evening.

"Knights...brothers in arms... your courage has been tested beyond all limits."

Isolde's heart clenched, and she crushed Tristan's hand. It took barely a glance to know that he, too, knew what was coming.

Bors, half drunk, was oblivious. Poor fool. His only answer was 'drink!'. Bur Arthur didn't allow himself to be sidetracked.

"But I must ask you now for one further trial."

"Drink !", Bors insisted, distressed.

Isolde's breath caught, her pulse quickening. Her legs suddenly turned to jelly, and she struggled to keep herself upright. But she refused to faint; she would hear all of it to honour her husband. The roman commander laid out the ugly truth at their feet.

"We must leave on a final mission for Rome before our freedom can be granted. Above the wall, far in the north, there is a Roman family in need of rescue."

All their dreams shattered in a few words.

Another mission, north of the wall. Death.

Tristan's whole body hummed from anger. Arthur's eyes glided to them, taking in the presence of his woman, preened and beautiful to honour his freedom. Rounded with child, a child that should be born in a few days. Her tears flowed silently down her lovely face. Tristan stood, unmoving, watching guilt, sorrow and defeat permeate his commander's eyes as he sent them to their death. As he deprived him of his family a second time. And just this once, he sent the man, his brother in arms, a look so hateful that the commander couldn't withstand it.

"The Romans have broken their word. We have the word of Arthur. That is good enough. I'll prepare."

Dagonet's quiet words punched them all in the gut. There was no choice… No way to escape this if they wanted the papers. Freedom at hand, only to be snatched from their grasp at the latest moment.

And the angry and bitter retort died in the scout's throat as he watched, helpless, Galahad trample his mug of wine at Arthur's feet before he stormed out. Arthur followed, leaving for the stables with the crushing weight of the world on his shoulders. Lancelot exchanged a look with Tristan before he set off, a strange gleam shining in his dark eyes. Gawain had left, Dagonet as well, probably trying to reason with Bors. They were the last ones standing in the middle of the courtyard, dreams, happiness and hopes crushed by the authority of a Bishop.

That damn Roman ! It was little wonder he'd felt so uneasy when he had left the round table. Suddenly, the world shifted on its axis. If they were not free to go, Isolde was in danger. Tugging on her hand, he led his lady to his chambers.

"Come, little wife, let us rest."

His respect only grew when he saw how difficult it was, for her, to walk uphill. How she grit her teeth to prevent from sobbing her heart out; she refused to say goodbye. Refused to believe he might not return. Yet… going north of the wall was akin to a death sentence.

Tristan walked into his quarters and bolted the door; a habit for no one had ever penetrated his sanctuary without his permission. He let go of Isolde's hand to dig a purse at the bottom of his trunk, leaving her standing in his room. And when at last he turned around, fingering the pouch he had been looking for, Tristan took in the sight of his beloved wife, heavy with his child.

Beautiful, all curves and plushness.

He swore that no matter what, he would come back to her. Hawk's cry, echoing in the distance, told him he'd been heard. Good.

The knight dropped the pouch that contained every single coin he owned except for the few remaining ones in his pocket. The little reserve, accumulated over the years, that he kept for the travel back to Sarmatia.

"Stay away from the Bishop, that man is evil. Do not let him see you."

His stern voice caused Isolde's features to twist in alarm.

"Do you think he might recognise me?"

The scout paused, his hooded eyes nearly indiscernible below the loose strands of his hair. Except for the ray of the moon, there was no other source of light in the room.

"I don't know, and won't take the risk. Even if he doesn't, he would sniff a fellow Roman noble. Do not let them see your hair, hide in your shop. Do not step a foot outside until I get back."

By then, Isolde was biting her tongue, terrified.

"Here. If I do not return, this is everything I own. It is yours…"

"Tristan!"

Her hands came to frame his cheeks and he could see her struggle as she tried not to cry.

"Please come back to me."

The scout only nodded, his chest tightening under the duress of their predicament. What were the odds? Seven of them, against thousands of Saxons? And Woads along the way? What kind of miracle could save them from the blue devils?

Had they faced worse odds ? Never.

Would he cleave the earth, dig a trench to the sea, or crawl from here to Sarmatia to get back to Isolde ? He certainly would.

This evening, the scout divested his little wife with extra care, caressing every single curve, kissing her skin even in places that caused her to giggle, worshipping her with eyes, hands and body. He wanted to memorise her every feature, remember her smile, the shape of her emerald eyes, the softness of her silken strands.

Tomorrow, he would dive into a kingdom of men and death.

Tonight, he basked in her feminity, relishing in the feeling of that life inside of her. A mingle of both their blood that welcomed his touch.