Awkward-awkward-awkward! I screamed in my head while helping him back onto the horse. Out loud, I merely said: "Again?" as I heaved at his shin, trying to give him a leg-up while not catapulting him straight over Sarakos' back and onto the ground the other side. We were both trying to balance on a slippery fallen tree. Sarakos' patience was incredible as we heaved, grunted and (I) laughed at the unintentional silliness of our predicament.
"What's so funny?" Tristan asked when he was finally astride Sarakos' back and I was tying all the things to the harness again.
"For a couple of horsemen we're being remarkably hopeless right now," I explained, smirking at the knot I was fastening. He didn't like me; I wasn't his number one fan at that moment either – but the immediate situation tickled me so much that I couldn't help but be amused. When I'd secured the last bundle, Tristan held out his uninjured hand to me, offering to help me up.
I shrugged, and let him manhandle me onto Sarakos in front of him. This was decidedly trickier than if I was trying to mount up behind him, but we somehow managed – even though at one point Tristan was practically sitting on Sarakos' hips while I lay across the horse's shoulders like a sack of potatoes. I chuckled a lot then too, much to Tristan's obvious disapproval. Once we were finally settled and ready to go, there was an awkward silence. I was staring down at the reins I was twisting in my hands when Tristan unexpectedly wrapped the cloak around both of us.
Wow, that was cosy of him.
~oOo~
She nudged Sarakos into a walk, heading for the now visible edge of the woods. It was an awkward silence, but Tristan had nothing to say to fill it – so instead he stretched his tired senses into their surroundings, searching for any hint of human activity. But his mind kept returning to the way she had laughed as they had tried to get on Sarakos. She had seen the irony and chosen to be amused rather than be shamed by the situation. Meanwhile, he had felt such frustration and anger at their combined weakness that amusement didn't seem remotely appropriate. It was only when Natalya was lying over Sarakos like a dead man, chuckling as she wriggled ineffectively and asked for a 'little help', that he'd allowed himself a small smile, secure in the knowledge that she'd been unable to see his derision. She was such a pest.
They rode at a steady march along the track until they finally reached the road that ran parallel to the Wall. Natalya seemed undaunted by the massive, seemingly endless construction, and simply asked:
"Are we the right side of this thing?"
"Yes," he said, idly wondering what he was going to do to keep her close when they reached the fort – no answers sprang to mind.
The fort's walls appeared in the distance as they mounted the crest of the hill.
"Let me do the talking when we get there, be silent and follow my lead," Tristan said. It was the safest option in any scenario he could imagine happening.
"Just don't tell them I'm a whore," she said.
"Even if I did, I don't think they'd believe me," Tristan said, straight-faced.
"Thanks, I can see you're feeling better," she growled.
The night was drawing in by the time they reached the gates and the soldier leaned over the rampart to call down to them.
"Who approaches?" he shouted.
"Tristan, Sarmatian knight serving under Lucius Artorius Castus!" Tristan called up. "I require immediate entry!"
The soldier didn't even respond. The gates swung open mere moments later and Natalya urged Sarakos inside. Soldiers and squires rushed up to attend them, all voices raised in a cacophony of confused questions as they were helped off the horse.
"Where is the rest of the detachment?"
"That is Sir Kay's horse! Where is he?"
"You are wounded! Quick! Someone fetch the surgeon!"
"And who's this?" said the head groom. He'd caught Natalya under the arms and gently lowered her to the ground like a child. Next to his huge frame she really did seem even younger, her frame skinnier. True to her word, she kept silent and was currently huddled against Sarakos in obvious fright.
Tristan, in a moment of inspiration, said the first thing that entered his mind: "He's a slave I picked up in the market at Coria, we barely escaped a Woad raid with our lives. Everyone else was wiped out."
"Haha… you've good taste, he's a pretty one for sure," leered one of the soldiers. "Look those big eyes… and that hair…" he reached out to touch her and Natalya shrank even further into Sarakos' bulk, trying to edge towards Tristan. The soldier grabbed a handful of her long hair and tugged sharply, trying to pull her towards him, but the head groom – second only to the Stable-master and horse trainers – stepped in. He moved between then and slapped the soldier's hand away.
"Don't be a fool, Marcus," he rumbled, buying Natalya time to scuttle to Tristan's side. "That's Tristan's boy."
The soldier seemed to realise the implications of angering the most feared of all the knights. He immediately began to stammer an apology, but Tristan waved it off.
"See that my things are brought to the infirmary with us," he ordered, reminding everyone of their business. Once again, both he and the girl were swept up in the rush of shouting men and borne away, but not before Tristan felt a small cold hand slip into his. He squeezed it tightly in warning. Then one of the stable hands looped Tristan's good arm over his shoulder and helped him along. Behind him, he heard Natalya squeak involuntarily as she was lifted bodily in the head groom's arms. That raised a laugh, but luckily the girl managed to hold her tongue and not give them away.
The surgeon was waiting for them. "Ah, Tristan," the old man said as Tristan was helped onto one of the pallets. "Back with us again, I see. Was it Woads or bandits?" he asked.
"Woads," Tristan grunted as the physician's assistants helped him out of his clothes so they could treat his wounds.
Across the room, Natalya was huddled against a wall, hugging herself as she shrank from the assistant trying to examine her. Tristan noticed and said: "He only cut his foot on a rock, silly child. We fled while we had the chance, but then my injuries slowed our pace." That little explanation would save her from being stripped and discovered.
"Who treated your wounds?" the surgeon asked, examining the bandages around Tristan's side, shoulder and leg as he peeled them off.
"The boy," Tristan replied promptly.
"He has had medical training," it wasn't a question.
"But not enough if he's to be my slave," Tristan remarked, wincing as the assistant began to clean the wounds, preparing them for the inevitable stitches. "He's new; shipped in from one of the farthest corners of the empire – it's a miracle he can speak Latin at all."
"A barbarian? Sure he's not simply from Ireland? Still, that's surprising. And you've plenty of time to train him up," the surgeon said. "Those eyes are most enchanting." He eyed Natalya appreciatively and she looked away in response. "And those long lashes, the hair; almost feminine… will you take him back to your land when your term of service is over?"
"Depends if he's still useful in ten years' time," Tristan remarked lightly. "But he's quiet – barely says two words inside a day, which is nice when I have knights, soldiers and officers bawling at me from dawn till dusk." He was being unusually chatty, but it was more for Natalya's benefit than anyone else's.
The surgeon chuckled and went over to the girl. She was hyperventilating, gasps making her flat chest heave as her eyes fixed upon the needle in the assistant's hand.
"What's wrong?" Tristan called over to her.
She pointed at the needle, primed and ready, and shook her head violently, eyes on stalks.
"Afraid of a little needle?" the surgeon asked, simpering. Natalya nodded emphatically.
"Well then, if we bandage it up tight and find you some shoes, will you promise not to walk on your foot until it heals?" the surgeon said, taking her dainty foot in one wizened hand and stroking her ankle with the other. Natalya shuddered, her face white, and Tristan felt a little twinge of pleasure at the sight – now the tables had turned. But his attention was dragged back to his own injuries as the assistant began to sew up the wound in his leg, and the girl was forgotten.
When he did manage to speak, he said: "He'll do as he's told, but I'd rather not listen to him shriek like a girl if it's all the same to you," Tristan's hands were clenched around the bedframe against the pain. It was too much! Torn between his own agonies and saving the girl from some stitches. This whole sorry situation was so mad.
The surgeon then began to tenderly treat Natalya's foot, murmuring things to her as he did so. The girl remained glued to the wall, her eyes never leaving the old man's hands as he deftly treated her foot. Whatever he was saying, it didn't seem to reassure her – instead, she seemed to set her face and almost glare at him.
"All done," the surgeon proclaimed. "I'll send for the shoe-maker in the morning to have some little boots made for your boy, Tristan." He said, "Such dear little feet…" he wandered over to examine Tristan's sutures, nodding approvingly at his assistants' efforts. Once that was over, the wounds were dressed in fresh linen bandages and Tristan was given a spare tunic to sleep in while his clothes were washed and mended. The surgeon said that the fort commander would want to speak to him on the morrow and word would be sent to Arthur as well.
Then he was asked to drink a horribly bitter concoction to help him sleep. He refused after the first sip and assured the surgeon that he would sleep perfectly well without it. Then nearly all the lamps were extinguished and they left alone in the infirmary, with only an assistant to keep watch. He sighed and settled down to sleep when he heard the soft padding of uneven footfalls across the stone floor. Groaning internally, he cracked an eye open and saw Natalya creeping towards him.