Chapter Nine

Tristan cursed himself all the way back to his hut, cursed himself until he fell asleep, and cursed himself when he woke in a foul mood in the morning. What, in the name of the gods had he been thinking, kissing her? He was short with Imogen, causing her to storm off with Nim, Sura's daughter, without joining him for breakfast. He was gruff with the new serving girl, eliciting a look of terror from her young eyes, and he said even less than usual to his fellow Knights, which was, in itself, a feat.

And it was all her fault. He didn't see her that morning, for which he felt compelled to thank the gods. He was currently weighing the pros and cons of tying a sack over her head and dumping her somewhere in the forest north of the wall. No doubt one of her own would find her, and then all would be well.

One could only imagine his relief when Galahad, looking melancholy, sat beside him in the tavern. This was really nothing new; Galahad looked melancholy quite frequently – it was what he said that interested Tristan.

"The guards brought in a Woad trying to climb over the wall," he said, "Gave him quite a beating – lucky Jols was there, heard him mention Carys's name."

Tristan looked sharply at Galahad. "He knows Carys?"

Galahad shrugged, his mouth turned downwards. "It would appear so. D'you think he'll take her from us?"

"I hope so," Tristan muttered.

Galahad narrowed his eyes and glared. "What was that?"

Tristan waved his hand flippantly, getting to his feet, "Nothing. Where is he?"

"In the gaol," Galahad replied, "What are you – " But Tristan had already swept out of the tavern, eager to meet the man who would bring Tristan some peace.

The Woad was a sad creature, for certain, with a split lip, a missing tooth, one eye swelling shut, and blood dripping sluggishly from a broken nose. His clothing was worn, almost ragged, save the heavy fur draped over his shoulders. His blond hair, long and unkempt, was matted with blood and dirt.

He jumped to his feet in an ungainly motion when he saw the Knight, which made Tristan frown. Clumsiness was not part of a Woad's repertoire, and neither were they as hulking as the blond giant before him now – bulk did a person who relied on their agility no good at all. A mocking grin twisted the Woad's battered mouth, and the eye that was not swollen shut was as blue as the sky and as cold as ice. Tristan was on edge the moment he met his gaze.

"A Sarmatian Knight," said the Woad, "to what do I owe the honour?"

"Why were you trying to get into the fort?" Tristan demanded, without pretence.

The Woad arched a pale eyebrow. "I am looking for someone," he said curtly.

"Who?"

"My sister," he mumbled.

"What makes you think she's here?"

"I saw you people take her!" The Woad raged suddenly. "I know she's here."

Wary, Tristan said, "Perhaps, perhaps not."

"She is," the Woad insisted, "Maybe you've seen her? She's tall, slim, with hair the color of a raven's wing and skin like the moon."

Tristan frowned. He did not like the way the Woad described her, with something like lust in his eye. "Many people fit that description," he parried.

"None of them are my sister!" The Woad growled, "Except for one. Carys."

Carys did not go to breakfast, but directly to the stables when she woke early that morning. She was hungry, but not nearly hungry enough to venture anywhere near where Tristan might be. What had he meant, kissing her like that? Bors's kiss – if it could even be called that – was one of gratitude, one of happiness at the news of the birth of his son. He probably would have kissed the extremely frightening Angharad if she had been the one to deliver the news.

But Tristan … first, he hated her, and now, he was kissing her? It was absurd, honestly. And it had happened so quickly – too quickly. She had not even had the opportunity to take more than a breath of his sweet musk, hadn't tasted his lips, hadn't felt more than a brief graze of his beard against her skin. Shaking her head, she redoubled her effort pounding a horseshoe into shape. The ringing of the metal made her ears buzz, and it was no surprise that she didn't hear Kay call her name the first, second, or third time he did so.

Finally, he grabbed her shoulder, and Carys whipped around with a small cry, holding the hammer at the ready. He looked down at her, eyebrows raised in amusement. "Are you going to bash my head in with that?"

Carys looked at the hammer, and then back at him before setting it down hastily. "Of course not," she said, with a nervous laugh, patting the handle of the tool. "What's up?"

Kay watched her fidget for a moment with a smile tugging at his mouth before he responded. She seemed unable to decide where to put her hands; first they were on her hips, then on the table, on her hips again, before she finally settled on crossing her arms over her chest. "I thought you'd like to know they've got a Woad holed up in the gaol, maybe you might know him?"

All at once, Carys looked less jittery, and a slow smile brightened her face. "A Woad? May I?"

He nodded and Carys slipped out of the smithy, sprinting through the street. She had passed the gaol once before, she was sure … the trouble was, remembering where to find it. It was an out-of-the-way location; no one wanted to be bothered with the riff-raff thrown there.

Breathless by the time she found it, she darted past the guard before he could stop her, and upon rounding the corner that led to the cells, collided with none other than Tristan. She stumbled and he caught her, righting her on her feet while she blushed fiercely and berated herself; how many more times would this happen before she would learn to look where she was going?

Releasing her, she cleared her throat loudly, discomfited, and proceeded to take great pains in smoothing out her clothing, finding a streak of soot to be particularly fascinating. He flattened his mouth to prevent a smile. Finally, she looked up, but did not meet his eye. Subconsciously, she scratched the puckered pink line at her temple, before saying, "Excuse me," and making to step around him.

He let her by, but followed. There was something about the blond Woad that made him uneasy, and as much as he wanted to be rid of Carys, he did not want her to go anywhere with him. She glanced at him over her shoulder and frowned. He gestured towards the end of the hall, and she continued on.

When she reached the last cell, she peered into it, hoping to see one of the people who had been haunting her dreams of late, but no – it was not a person she was glad to see. Leaning casually against the bars, a man called Hathus leered at her. She felt the blood drain from her head, and she pressed herself against the wall opposite his cell, as far from him as possible. Her heart slammed in her chest, and she felt sure she was about to pass out, until she felt the rage stir in her gut, coursing through her veins.

"Hello Carys," he said lecherously. She shuddered, bile rising in her throat. Her body tensed, and in a single leap she crossed the space between them, making a noise like an angry cat in her throat. She didn't notice the pain of her body slamming into the bars, her arms flailing at him. She managed to punch his jaw and scratch his throat before he caught her wrists, holding her fast despite her struggles. He leaned in, smelling her hair and groaning softly in her ear.

Her stomach heaved, and she cringed away, unwittingly pressing herself into Tristan, who had materialised beside her, glowering viciously at the big blond man. "Let her go," he said through gritted teeth. He pressed the dagger at Hathus's side in a little deeper, making sure he took Tristan seriously. As it was, he merely glanced from the dagger back to Tristan's face, and then released Carys with a derisive glare.

Pale and shaking, Carys took off in the direction she'd come. "She's got you wrapped around her finger too," said the blond man scornfully.

"Who are you?" Tristan demanded.

"Be careful of her; she runs hot, then cold – love you one minute and try to kill you the next."

Carys flew out of the gaol, screams – her screams – echoing in her head. Hathus's face hovered over her in her memory; his long hair was in her face. His breath was sour, and he was hurting her, tearing her apart. The memory was as fresh, as painful as if it had happened yesterday.

On trembling legs, Carys ducked into an alleyway and sank down onto the ground, folding her arms on her knees and resting her forehead in her arms. Carys, she told herself, You got through this before, you can do it again. Just breathe ...

She followed the order, breathing in deeply and releasing it slowly. She felt her heart steady, but as her eyes slid closed, flashes images of that terrible day returned; the faces of the dead ... there had been so many dead, their blood seeping into the earth – not just of Woads, but of their enemies, too. Hathus, destroying her, and her mother's eyes, a beautiful blue-grey even in death, staring into the next world.

Carys choked on the next breath she took, and she raised her head, rubbing her face vigorously with her hands. A shadow fell across the opening of the alley, and Carys was on her feet in one smooth movement, poised for attack before she noted that it was Tristan, silhouetted by the sun at his back.

The adrenaline in her veins made her restless, and she began to pace, her mouth dry and her skin hot. He advanced on her, making a grab for her arm, but she twisted away, glaring darkly before resuming her pacing. "What was that?" he growled at her.

She swallowed hard and stood before him, her hands on her hips, but she continued shifting her weight between her feet. She ran her hands over her thick braid before tossing it over her shoulder, then scratched her temple, as was becoming a nervous habit, he noticed, then rubbed her index finger over her lower lip, before finally crossing her arms over her chest.

What was it about that man that had her so unsettled? He wondered. He had never seen her so agitated. Her eyes were very bright in her pale face, though she would not meet his gaze, looking everywhere but at him, it seemed.

"What is he doing here?" she said at last.

He told her, "A patrol brought him in."

"Do you know who? I'd like to hug the man who kicked his face in." She began to pace again, not expecting an answer.

Tristan, becoming agitated himself watching her pace back and forth, seized her shoulders and held her still. "Who is he, Carys?" He manoeuvred himself until she was forced to look into his face and he saw a kind of wild desperation in her eyes that made him catch his breath. "Carys," he said again, in the firm tone he employed on Imogen, "Who is he?"

She swallowed hard again and looked away, and Tristan realized with a sinking feeling that her eyes were shining with tears. "His name is Hathus," she choked out, dashing the tears from her eyes as they fell.

"And who is he?" Tristan probed, when she did not volunteer any further information.

Carys felt her throat close and her heart squeeze. "He's a filthy bastard."

"He told me he was your brother."

She laughed mirthlessly. "Tristan," she said dubiously, "I'll admit I don't know much about making families, but I would find it very odd if one sibling were as dark as I, while the other was as pale as a Saxon."

Tristan detected the emphasis she placed on the word Saxon, and his eyebrows snapped together. "He's a Saxon?" She arched an eyebrow at him, her mouth tightening. That was confirmation enough. "What is he doing here?"

She shrugged. "I don't remember the story he told us," he could tell she was lying, and Carys knew she did a poor job of it. Thankfully, Tristan had enough tact not to probe. "But whatever it was, we should never have believed him." She grimaced, and kicked at a rock on the ground, watching it skitter across the stones dispassionately.

"What happened?" She gulped, looking away. Fresh tears pooled in her eyes, and she pulled in a deep, quavering breath, but did not speak. "What happened?" he repeated, taking her shoulders again. She twisted away from him, stepping out of reach.

Shaking her head slowly, she said, "I can't..."

He approached her, like one might approach a wounded animal, but she continued to retreat. "Tell me what happened, Carys."

She shook her head again. "No," she said firmly, "I can't." She snuffled pathetically, and Tristan dipped his head to look into her face.

"He's saying not to trust you," he told her gruffly.

She looked sidelong at him, her expression a mixture of curiosity and contempt. "Well," she said slowly, a tremor in her voice, "If you choose to trust him over me, on your head be it."

Incensed by the threat, Tristan seized her arm, just above the elbow, in a grip with bruising force. "I don't trust either of you," he hissed.

She wrenched away, and for a moment considered striking him. "I don't care if you don't trust me! I'm a Woad, you're a Knight – we're enemies! But it could become very dangerous for you if you were to continue running around kissing your enemies."

Carys's walk back to the stables passed in a blur, as did the rest of the morning. The maelstrom of emotions were blinding and troubling; fear, rage, sadness ... she could not keep track.

Kay knew something was wrong – an idiot would know, and he thought it must have something to do with the Woad at the gaol. He could admit being curious, but he had seen enough of his brothers in the same state Carys was in now – had been in the same frame of mind, to know that she would share when she was ready.

But he drew the line when she mutilated several horseshoes before snapped the handle from the hammer, was careless with the fire poker and burned a hole right through her shirt, singing her belly, and cut her arm open on the sharp edge of an unfinished wheel rim. He sent her to the infirmary mid-afternoon with a sharp order not to return until tomorrow.

She left wordlessly, and was just as silent throughout Bronwyn's ministrations. But Bronwyn was a victim of her curiosity, and could not help but asking.

Warily, she said, "Carys, whatever is the matter?"

Carys frowned, staring hard at the floor while Bronwyn cleansed the cut on her forearm. If she could tell anyone, she could tell Bronwyn, couldn't she? – But even as she thought about doing so, her throat tightened and tears stung her eyes. No ... no, she couldn't, she decided. "It's nothing important," she choked, dashing the tears from her cheeks.

"Is it the Woad, in the gaol?"

Carys looked at her sharply, her mouth tight. "A man I wished to never see again."

Bronwyn nodded, understanding that Carys would say no more. She squeezed the girl's shoulder, and Carys in turn squeezed her hand, smiling half-heartedly.

The cut on Carys's arm was long; from her elbow, to the delicate underside of her wrist, but luckily wasn't deep, or it would be bleeding far more than it was. Bronwyn laid a strip of heavy white linen over the wound, and then wrapped her entire forearm with the same fabric.

"Would you like to join me in the garden? I have to gather some herbs ..." Carys shook her head, but thanked her. "Alright," she said. "I'll be back later with a poultice for that burn."

Carys laid back on her bed, her head tipped back over the bed and her legs up against the wall. She listened to the door slide shut, and the sound of her own breathing. Voices drifted up to her from the street, along with the blissful laughter of children. Carys thought of Enid, probably with Gawain; of Kay and Bronwyn, the proof of their love growing in Bronwyn's belly; Vanora and Bors with their brood of children – the manifestations of adoration.

That was what love was supposed to be like; beautiful, sweet and glowing, breathing new life into the world. Love was not cruel, it did not destroy. Her heart lurched in her chest, and hot tears flowed into her hair. She squeezed her eyes shut, only to see Hathus's face floating there. Smiling warmly down at her; tucking a curl behind her ear; touching her hand when she offered a daisy chain; the way he gazed at her across the fire. Then, he was laughing in her face, cutting her, killing her, splitting her apart.

With a growl in her throat, Carys pushed her hands into her eye sockets. She supposed a benefit of losing her memory was that she had forgotten that day, but now she was being forced to relive the most horrible event in her young life.

The pressure of her hands over her eyes caused stars to burst in the darkness, and when she removed her hands, Tristan's face had replaced Hathus's. Tristan, with his unruly dark hair and haphazard braids; his black beard framing his full, slightly downturned mouth; his glimmering topaz eyes that somehow managed to jumpstart her innards every time she met them. She imagined her fingers in his hair, his lips tracing the line of her throat. She heard his voice, humming in her ear, the warmth of his breath on her skin.

A decision was made in that moment; one she didn't realize had been made until she found herself outside Tristan's home. Standing before his hut, she hesitated, regretting having made the trip and debating turning around. Finally, she forced herself to knock on the door.

It was thrown open several minutes later by a shirtless Tristan. Carys's breath rushed out of her when she found herself staring directly at his well-muscled chest, covered in dark springy hair that tapered over the ridges of his abdominals, trailing into the waistline of his pants.

"What?" he demanded gruffly, pulling a dark grey tunic over his head.

She gulped and met his eyes rather sheepishly. "Erm ..." she said, and his glare deepened. "Listen," she began, and he folded his arms over his chest.

"I'm listening," he informed her curtly.

Annoyed, Carys pushed past him into the house. Avoiding his formidable stare, she said, "I don't know why I care what you think of me." She heard the door latch and looked up, to see Tristan walking slowly towards her, his brow pinched. "But I do. I care what you think of me." Tristan said nothing, hovering near her silently. Nervous, Carys said, "Sit down," she commanded, "you're making me nervous."

Smirking, Tristan obliged, watching her pace uneasily. "Well?" he demanded.

"Don't rush me," she snapped. "This is hard enough." It was some time before she finally started; "Alright, so ... Hathus. When he came to our tribe, he told us he was a Gaul, who had deserted from the Roman Legion. Deserters are killed if they are found, and he was very ... kind," she snorted, "a wonderful actor ..." her mouth pulled down at the corners. "Anyway, for the first few months, everything was fine. He seemed genuine; he scouted with us, ate with us, fought with us ... I thought he was one of the best men I'd ever met –"

"You loved him," Tristan accused her, a burning feeling in his temples.

She glared viciously. "Don't interrupt. I went for a walk one night, and I saw him with several other men, as blond and as big as he was, but I would recognize the language they spoke anywhere ... Saxon.

"Thinking back, I should have returned to the camp, warned my people, but I didn't. I didn't tell anyone until it was too late. I tried to beat Hathus at his own game, but I'd never had a cause to be deceitful before, and he'd had plenty of practice. I'm sure he knew what I was up to from the beginning.

"A few days later, I was out hunting ..." she frowned. "I was with someone ..." A flash of a beaming smile, huge grey-green eyes and golden-brown curls shining in the sun, but no name. "I don't remember her name, but I was with someone when ..." she swallowed hard, and she frowned, a vertical line appearing above her slim nose. She cleared her throat, and hugged herself.

Suddenly, Tristan did not want her to go on. He had a feeling he knew what she was about to say. He didn't know what it was about women crying, but he couldn't bear it. Impulsively he stood, going to her, but she ducked away from him. "Let me finish," she said breathlessly, a tear slipping down her cheek. Tristan backed away, but did not return to his seat. She drew a quivering breath, and continued. "I don't remember what happened to the girl I was with, but I was alone when Hathus found me," her voice broke, as did the dam holding back her tears. She emitted a choked sob, clutching her chest, and Tristan reached for her again. She seized his forearm in one hand, gripping it so hard her knuckles turned white.

Haltingly, she went on. "After ... after, the girl I'd been with found me," she sniffled, releasing Tristan's arm to brush away her tears. "We went back to the village ... everything was gone – burned to the ground. There were bodies – Woads and Saxons – everywhere." She coughed wetly. "My mother ..." her lower lip trembled, and she fell to her knees, bent double.

Dammit, he wished she wouldn't cry. Her vulnerability made him shudder. He kneeled before her, hugging her head to his chest. As she cried, he found himself noticing how soft her hair was; how pretty she smelled; how smooth and warm her skin was, and before he could think himself out of it, he found himself placing two fingers beneath her chin, tilting her head back gently.

Her pale skin was blotchy and red, her nose and eyes streaming. Her eyes were bright, dark and open like the mouth of a cave, sucking him in. She was absolutely irresistible. He traced his thumb over her lower lip, and Carys shivered. She studied the tattoos upon his cheekbones; they were intricate and beautiful, accentuating his hypnotizing golden eyes, with their brown sugar starburst that captivated her. She caught her lower lip between her teeth, and Tristan surged forward, his other hand slipping beneath her heavy braid and pulling her towards him. He angled his mouth over hers, the curve of her slender neck fitting perfectly in the cradle of his palm. Her lips were moist with tears, and tasted salty, but they were soft and warm and she kissed him with a clumsy enthusiasm that only served to enflame him more.

His beard rasped her skin, and the calluses on his hands were rough on her throat, driving a chill up her spine. She sighed softly, and the hand on the back of her neck tightened, holder her closer as his tongue gently dipped into her mouth. She touched the tip of her tongue to his, her heart fluttering –

And then someone was pounding on Tristan's door. They froze, and with a groan, Tristan pulled away, dropping a firm kiss onto her mouth before jumping to his feet. He threw open the door, annoyed, to see Galahad looking edgy in the doorway.

"What is it?" Tristan demanded brusquely.

"The Saxon. He's gone."

A/N : Hayo! Thank you to everyone who read the last chapter, as well as this one. Some smut in this chapter, and the start of some intrigue. I started this story with a specific direction in mind, and now it appears Bow, Meet Arrow and Carys, in particular, have had other plans all along. I hope you're enjoying this story so far, I can't wait to hear your thoughts.

Thank you to :

xXAngelStormXx – So, they have kissed again, but I don't think Tristan is done being cryptic and confusing. I hope you liked this chapter!

THE DEADLY ANGEL – I'm glad you liked the last chapter; as for what's going to happen between Tristan and Carys ... we'll both just have to wait and see.

CeraTetrinaara – I'm really, really pleased that you love this story, and I'm glad you like Imogen – I do too. I hope you liked this chapter!

Please review!

LOVE.