Chapter Thirteen: Realisations

Iseult couldn't bear to be in the village after Tristan had left, so she returned home a few days later. She was welcomed back with open arms by her people, along with her son. Her brother gladly handed over the leadership to her, and Iseult became Queen. Deep in the heart of Iceni lands, she could put in the back of her mind those things which had held her heart too tightly, and which, she thought, had affected her judgement. She had to be a strong force to lead these men and women who relied on her for the most important decisions. Iseult made sure through loyalty and concealed threats that the years she had spent away from the tribe were kept a secret from all apart from those select few who had been there.

She found herself drifting back in time as she watched Lancelot make his way up the hill towards him, after the Great War with the Saxons at Hadrian's Wall, and a vision of a younger man, self-assured, striding along the courtyard of the great outpost, amongst the horses, sheep and children playing amongst the chickens. She was younger then. More naive, perhaps, but less hardened than she was now. Lancelot looked up, and her stomach jumped. The arrogance she had seen earlier was gone suddenly. There was such pain in his eyes...Iseult could barely hide it any longer. Turning, she walked away from Lancelot, who was now being directed into his hut, and let the silent tears fall.

Pain had aged her, she decided later that night, as she now stood underneath the pitch black sky. She wished for the light balmy summer nights, but relished the winter for the peace she had when no-one was around, and she would stand beneath the sky and think. Taron was asleep in the hut. All around, there was the yellow glow from fires that edged wooden doors and the smoke-holes in the roofs of the huts. Iseult walked on, away from her own hut, pulling the heavy wool cloak tighter around her shoulders. There wasn't a strong wind, but the air was icily cold, and Iseult didn't feel she could stay out much longer. Before she knew it, she found that she was standing looking at Lancelot's hut. The guard had been changed, and was sitting by the door wrapped against the wind and cold weather, his sword ready in his hand, but asleep. There was the glow of a fire from inside, the light from which could be seen as the blasting wind pulled at the covering of the door, showing the gaps between the wooden slats. Iseult moved closer, and, like a young girl, put her eye to a gap to see inside.

It was filled with yellow light from the fire, and extra rugs and furs to keep out the cold. There at the one end was the bed Iseult had to carefully prepare before others had brought Lancelot back from the snowstorm, but Lancelot seemed not to be there. Her eyes widened at the possibility that he knew she was there, or that he had escaped, or ... No, there he was, coming into her frame of vision, his back to her. He turned to the side, and Iseult thought he must have shaved after their encounter earlier. He must have heated some water on the open fire, too, because he now placed a small, steaming bowl on the bed next to him, and began to wash his face. He was shirtless, and Iseult let out a small gasp at the sight of his body, In the interjecting years between their last meetings, Iseult had heard of the battles in the North, had seen the scars her own men returned with, but to see her former lover's new scars caused her considerable pain. After all, she had one of her own that she had gained from protecting him all those years ago; a scar that still caused her pain now, and cut like a dividing line across her stomach, a raised white line, like chalk, marking her as the victim of a past love, a love that was stirring its limbs from where it had been sleeping. His breathing was heavier, she observed, and there seemed to be a few grey hairs now streaking his head. With each passing moment Iseult was allowing herself to look more, to notice someone she thought she would spend the rest of her life trying to forget. It was a hopeless situation for her to be in, a weak one, she would tell herself night after night, when hours would pass and still she had not slept for more than a few minutes. How she wanted to be with him, not to hide outside in the cold where she could no longer feel her fingers and have to voyeuristically watch someone she knew – if she could only will herself to move her legs – be beside in a moment.

She leaned her weight onto the wood of the hut, and a twig cracked and splintered. Even with the noise of the wind, Lancelot's ears picked out the sound and he looked up sharply. Iseult froze, her ice-blue eyes wide, and stepped backwards once more into the darkness, and Lancelot was left with only the sleeping guard and the furs for company.