King Arthur's court

Isolde tugged at her sleeve to keep her fingers busy. There! She'd found the loose thread in her hem. Damn it ! Who knew how much of the embroidery work would be wasted come the evening! And despite the fact that she was, now, a lady of leisure – ahem, a lady of the court – Isolde didn't fancy having to repair this particular piece. While her mind ran across the multiple ways to fix the elaborate garland stitch, the official gathering ran its course in Camelot's Great Hall. Men from all across the kingdom had come to honour King Arthur's invitation, a call to renew vows and agreements, military and commercial alike.

Isolde' eyes never left the bard, yet her mind was far, far away. She much preferred music to those singing minstrels. But it was a good way to hear about the happenings in nearby kingdoms, albeit songs always romanced things more than necessary. Still, King Arthur insisted on inviting artists from all over the kingdom to grace the Great Hall; an honour none of them would pass. A smart move; it kept the news flowing. This evening, the bard lacked talent; his voice rose and fell while he played the luth, but Isolde couldn't keep her thoughts focused on the man.

Her quiet sigh earned her a concerned look. Sir Tristan, as handsome as ever, did not move an inch from his seat. Yet, his eyes met hers with a question. She addressed him a tired smile punctuated by a slight roll of her eyes. His sensual mouth quirked up; no words were needed for him to understand that she was bored out of her mind. His long fingers drifted under the massive table, sliding across her thigh in a caress that spoke of desire and longing. Heat immediately pooled in her lower abdomen, and the not so young woman straightened in her seat to keep her composure.

Trust her husband to ignite the fire within her in the middle of the Great Hall! Who knew the scout –officially a trusted advisor to the King – could be this playful. He that seemed so aloof, so quiet, so deadly in public was relentless when it came to her. 'I will never have enough of you' he had said, one day in a fit of passionate lovemaking. Five children later, she believed him. The youngest of their boys was but eighteen months old, and she was glad for the breastfeeding that kept her from being pregnant again; she wasn't a maiden anymore.

But Tristan still complimented her beauty, and from the gleam that passed through his eyes right before his attention returned to the bard, it was a truthful thought. The admiration was returned heartily; more than thirteen years had passed since they were married, and Tristan had never been more handsome. Age had brought a little bulk to his shoulders, some solace as well. So did their children. Their daughter had broken his façade with such ease. The boys brought forth his playfulness. And his eyes alighted with joy every time he welcomed a new addition, his hands – those of a killer – opening wide to receive the newborns into the safe haven of his arms.

Sir Tristan, today, was still a dangerous man. Trained, and deadly. As accurate with a bow than with a dagger. His quick wit only matched by his acute sense of observation. The perfect counsellor for a King that needed blunt opinions devoid of any ambition. There was no man more devoted to his King, except for his brothers; the knights of Sarmatia. But behind the role rested a soul who'd found a sense of belonging. The crow's feet around his eyes were more pronounced; laugh lines acquired with his family. The leather vest and worn out breeches had been replaced by simple, yet more elegant garments sewn by his wife. His eyes, once hidden behind wild bangs, were now exposed. Less guarded as well. The shaggy mane had been tamed and sometimes rested at his nape, tied with a leather cord.

All in all, life wasn't bad in Camelot. Ironically, the noble woman that had fled her household to escape marriage was a lady again by means of her husband. The Sarmatian knight had restored her to her rank, and even more. Tristan never cared telling his brothers that he was considered royalty; his tattoos still stood out, but no one dared asking him about it. Arthur knew, though, and had made him a collector of Sarmatian who fled the Huns. His poise alike would have assured his welcome among his people, but the tattoos spoke of his status well enough. Already, Tristan had gathered more than ten knights to populate the round table, and settled many a Sarmatian family around Camelot.

The Roman empire was falling to pieces. Both hurt by Rome, Tristan and Isolde watched it crumble with satisfaction, a sly smile gracing their lips. And even if Arthur still reached for Mediterranean ambassadors, the scout and his wife stayed clear from romans. They deserved this new life devoid of shackles for which they had slaved, fought and worked to the bone.

So when the bard eventually finished his tale and the music started, Sir Tristan, fearsome knight of the round table, asked his lovely wife for a dance. She obliged with a genuine smile. As they left their seats, Tristan didn't care for the looks and gossips of the court, no more now than ever in his life before. He knew people judged him stern, and worrisome. Dangerous, barely a Sarmatian animal, with no sense of politics and diplomacy. He knew the ladies spoke behind Isolde' back sometimes, wondering if he was a beast altogether, or even spoke to her, pitying her. Sometimes envying her. Tristan's mind couldn't reconcile with the looks they gave him. Women. There wasn't much to understand there, and he was glad that his wife had, at least, some sense. His match in everything but his skill with blades.

Tristan couldn't care less what the court thought of him when his life had come to this point. His children were cared for and happy, his King trusted him, so did his brothers, and he excelled at his job; to keep the kingdom safe. And so, his maroon eyes twinkled when he offered his hand to the lady Isolde. HIS lady. And as they started dancing to a merry tune, he watched her twirl and turn, her smile wide whenever she caught his eyes, her happiness radiating. He was the centre of her world … a weird fact that he was slowly coming to terms with.

How beautiful she was still. Especially after bearing his children; Tristan still had trouble believing it. Isolde had given him the most sacred of presents, and her figure had grown plump, especially since she was still breastfeeding the youngest ones. How he loved those new curves! Lovely and plush, a delight to kiss and caress. Her hair danced around her, a few strands already escaping the hold of her braids, the rest flowing freely. Isolde had always refused the elaborates updos of the court; it reminded her of her roman origins, of her slavery in her father's house. He wasn't one to protest; she was stunning with her hair cascading down her back, strands falling over her swollen breasts.

When his hands found hers again, Tristan tightened his fingers and pulled her into his chest; a tiny squeal escaped her as she stumbled into his arms. Claiming her mouth for a short kiss, the knight prevented her from fleeing by snaking his arms around her waist. Isolde rolled her eyes, then attacked his lips fiercely. They missed a turn in the dance, but the scout wasn't ready to surrender yet. Everywhere he touched her, his skin tingled with joy. Relentless, she had called him. Tristan snorted –internally. No, he was just a man in love, and filled with energy that he couldn't dissipate in fights. Of course she would take the brunt of it… But who would remain still when she disrobed, eh? 'twas her fault, after all.

Feeling another part of his body steer, Tristan smiled at his wife, a discrete quirk of his lips only addressed to her before it disappeared in his beard streaked with white. Isolde eventually escaped his hold and he let her go, resuming the steps as if they had never stopped dancing. Her chocolate eyes twinkled with mirth, her lips still shiny from his tongue's swipe over them, cheeks reddened by his boldness. The scout wasn't getting any younger, but he didn't mind ageing; it meant he was still alive. Life was being more generous now, and he could only thank his Gods for the present of his wife and children.

The rhythm changed, and Tristan had to let Isolde go with the flow as dancers streamed around the place, going from partner to partner. If the musicians were skilled enough, each couple would find its first companion at the end, after completing the full circle. If they weren't … he would find her nonetheless. Tristan lifted an arm; a lady passed under it, and he completed his turn. The music picked up, the flute's speed increasing, he going counterclockwise while women went the other way around. The knight kept the pace, steps following as he gracefully performed his part of the dance. Some ladies sent him flirtatious smiles, others scowled as they had to lock hands with him.

Tristan ignored them all, keeping an eye on his fiery lady as she twirled graciously around the great hall, her little feet carrying her like a fairy.