Chapter 18: Inheritance
1. Inheritance
He recognized her at once; there was no doubt possible. Emerald eyes, carrot red hair twisted in Roman style updos, the same cheekbones and that delicate jawline. Her lips, like rose petals brushing against porcelain skin. More lines at the corner of her eyes, and more freckles… perhaps. That woman had had many children - two surviving - more than twenty years ago, and still looked fresh like a rose. Her skin unblemished; as the Domina, she was required to remain untouched by the sun.
The lines of her face were so harsh, the result of an unforgiving life. She probably didn't laugh much… The subtle differences might be enough for the others not to notice… but to Tristan, it was like watching a carbon copy.
Tristan shuddered when her hand grasped his to climb in the carriage.
"Thank you, Sir", the older woman said.
And he nodded briskly, aware that his commander was boring holes into him. A quick peek at Dagonet told him everything he needed to know; by the end of the day, no one would doubt they had met Isolde's mother. Bors, perhaps, oblivious oaf that he was whenever it didn't concern Vanora. But the others were not so gullible.
Tristan joined the head of the column, finding Lancelot who send it a playful look. Of course, the dark knight – whose aim in life was to woo women – had noticed the similarities as well. But despite the easy rivalry between them, he knew he could trust him.
"Not a word", Tristan grunted.
Lancelot shook his head, for once serious.
"Noted."
Satisfied, Tristan left the convoy to scout ahead. His brother's staring were getting on his nerves, and he quaked, internally, that one of them might do a blunder. As he checked the roads were sure enough for Isolde's family to reach their destination, he realized he had not given them enough credit. No matter how rowdy, how stupidly they sometimes behaved, the knights protected their own. Isolde, now, was part of that family. And so, when he reached the coast and the familiar smell of the seaside, Tristan sighed in relief. The ship was there, ready to take its passengers to Rome.
Good riddance !
He took off at full gallop, returning to the convoy. He had to give his wife – yes, wife ! – some credit: her parent's household laid 10 leagues to the south of Hadrian's wall. That was some hell of a distance to cover on foot, especially with such little food and belongings. He'd never asked her for the details of her flight – a painful memory – but he found a new source of respect in knowing how far she'd come to find him. Fate had spoken.
A smile came to his lips at the memory of Isolde's warm body, nary three days ago, wound up around him like a vine around an oak tree. And that bump of hers – now visible enough – that rippled under his touch. At first he didn't tell her, but he was rather sure she was going to lose the baby. But now … the child clung to her. Perhaps she really was magical, his Isolde. What else, if a woman who managed to make him feel alive?
Strangely, the solace he found in this memory only enhanced his anger. Anger at her father, for being a willing participant to the abuse. Anger at her mother, for letting Isolde suffer such a disgrace without extending her hand. Helpless Roman mothers, trapped in their marriage, allowing their children to be mistreated. Domini sometimes killed their children without anyone battling an eyelash. Discipline, they called it.
Sarmatians would never allow such a thing. Sure, belts sometimes whipped at young lags, it wasn't all sunshine and roses. Still... they cared for their children, and took on those who lost their parents without even thinking about it twice. If he should die... he knew his brothers would look after Isolde and their child.
As he returned to the group, satisfied with his findings – no danger ahead – Tristan overhead a name that sent chills down his spine.
Felicia.
His head snapped up, and his gaze met Arthur's harsh stare. Then his commander turned to the Roman sitting in his cart. Ridiculous, a man sitting rather than riding ! It would take a gruesome wound to restrain a knight in a cart… is that why Isolde loved him ? Because he had honour, and sat proudly in the saddle ? Isolde, who had been Felicia once…
Would Arthur give them away ? Was he going to sell his wife ? Tristan's fist tightened… if so, they would become fugitives of Rome. He would turn tail, reach the fort in a day, and steal Isolde and his child away. Cross the sea to Ireland, for all he cared. The knights had fought, and died, for those damn papers. Fleeing meant condemning himself to never be free, to never see Sarmatia again, to abandon his brothers. But what he refused to do for himself, Tristan would do for his new family.
So, he observed Arthur with bated breath, wondering what his commander and friend would do to seal his fate.
"I am sorry", Arthur answered with very detached words. "We have not come across Felicia."
A look was exchanged with his commander; his green eyes spoke of retribution. Later, Tristan would face his wrath. Yet, he didn't sell Isolde's whereabouts. The Gods bless his kind heart !
"And if she looks like you, madam, we would have spotted her !"
Lancelot's jab earned a few uneasy chuckles from his brothers. Galahad gaped, realization hitting him full force, while Gawain's face remained impassive. And Bors' scoff got drowned with a mighty slap, Dagonet daring him to say a word. Fortunately, the Roman remained oblivious as he spat:
"It is no matter. She'd better be dead, she brought dishonour to our family."
Arthur's face blanched and Isolde's mother gasped, tears pooling in her eyes. Tristan's mare nearly bolted such was the tension of his thighs. The scout forced himself to take a breath, finding strength in Dagonet's glare, a few feet behind the convoy. That Roman better be away before the giant knight decided to finish his life…
Tristan's blood roared so strongly that he failed to pick up what diplomatic response Arthur gave the Roman. But not the harsh retort.
"And now Marcus has taken another bride, a pity. Better to join our sons in Rome than stay here in disgrace."
Marcus. The man that had raped his wife before they were even married ! Tristan's grip tightened on the reins, knuckles white; he needed to breathe. So he took off once more, and stalked the group of knights until they rejected the spawns of Rome to the sea.
It took forever for all their belongings to be hoisted into the ship's hull. And all the while, Tristan remained on high ground. T'was the best place to scout, after all. So on top of the cliffs he remained, like a Hawk stalking a prey, his bird circling the little port from above until Isolde's family climbed on deck. And at last, his ambers eyes watched the boat float away upon the still waters, war brewing like a storm in his mind.
The scout preceded his peers on the road, too eager to return to the Fort. Yet, he knew he should talk to them. The port was but a few miles behind them when Arthur called for him.
"Tristan, a word."
The scout nodded, surprised to find Dagonet by his side for his questioning. Arthur didn't even bother to send the giant away; he caught on the message well enough. Support.
Sternly, the commander asked his scout:
"Did you know who she was ?"
Tristan's face remained impassive, his genuine response delivered without an ounce of hesitation.
"Yes."
Arthur released a weary sigh, boring holes into his scout. His failure at getting a reaction only annoyed him further.
"Why didn't you tell me ?"
The scout cocked his head aside, mimicking Hawk whenever she heard something worthwhile. Master and animal were mingling now. His eyes scanned the horizon, ever the watchful scout, until his unnatural gaze returned to the commander and he shrugged.
"She was in bad shape. And 'twas none of my business."
Arthur's jaw clenched.
"It is OUR duty, Tristan."
"Yours, not mine", was the smooth retort.
But the quietness of the scout's words didn't take the bite out of it. YOUR duty, Arthur. Once more, reminding him of the unfair weight that rested upon their shoulders. Of the life left behind, a thousand leagues away, in a hut of the Sarmatian plains. The commander sighed; so many, already, would not come back to their clans. Could he really blame Tristan for seeking a little comfort ?
"How did you meet her ?"
"On the road, I saved her from bandits. I escorted her to the fort."
Short sentences, without details. Tristan's way. By their side, Dagonet was connecting the dots in silence. A mountain, sleeping under the stars. They both stood there, proud and without remorse, for what they believed in.
Unfortunately, Arthur had had enough of wordless conversations.
"So what ? You just kept her because she looks good on your arm ?"
The scathing look his scout sent him froze the commander's insides. In fourteen years of service, he had never felt threatened by his knight. But today… Arthur shuddered; he never wanted to square off against Tristan.
"Hear me, Arthur. She's my woman now, I'm not giving her up to stuffy romans."
"I am not asking you to."
"Then what do you want ?"
Always the right questions; Tristan would be much more adept in politics than he thought. And to nail it properly, Dagonet decided it was time to voice his opinion.
"You heard what her father said. What do you think would happen to her, or the babe if you sent her back ?"
Arthur paled; the harsh words had certainly shocked him. How could you wish for your daughter's death ? He could not, in good conscience, deprive his scout from his child. There was no law against it. And Felicia – Isolde – would be cared for, Tristan or not Tristan, because she was part of the knight's family now.
"Arthur. You didn't lie, you have never met Felicia", Tristan insisted.
He was ready to take the blame to protect his commander. This looked like a deal, and Arthur nodded.
"So be it. Keep it that way."
And the commander spurred his horse forward, joining Lancelot at the vanguard to let off some steam. The news of Isolde's flight would soon spread amongst his peers by means of the greatest gossiper – the dark knight - but Tristan wasn't worried. They would protect her even more fiercely now that they knew what her father had planned for her.
Tristan send Dagonet a grateful look, and the giant nodded.
"Good. You take care of her now."
"She's my Isolde. Felicia is dead."
His jaw was set, determined. Fierce even; a warning to everyone that might try to come between him and his wife.
"And she'll soon be a mother", Dagonet added. "And you a father."
The mention of his baby, resting peacefully inside his wife's womb softened Tristan's expression. It was such a miracle, to create life in the midst of a war.
"She wants you to deliver the babe."
Clear blue eyes misted over, shocked by the scout's request. A wide grin then split Dagonet's face as he nodded.
"I will."
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