Chapter 5

He's hurt, he's in pain, he's your patient… this a definite breach in the doctor-patient contract! I thought, panic rising in my gut. He was too hurt to try anything, and I could always just refuse to treat his wounds. But the bloody stoic would probably deal with it manfully.

"Are we still going the right way?" I asked suddenly.

Tristan grunted an affirmative. "Keep heading north east," he murmured. "Follow the wall."

"Okay," Walls, Woads… and…? Dragons? Surely not…

I whiled away the time pondering this alliterative conundrum – unable to think of a synonym for 'ungrateful douchebag'.

We were very lucky in as much as it didn't rain, and the Woads didn't catch up with us. Then I decided that we needed a break – especially Sarakos who had been doing all the hard work. Tristan sat up and looked about, clearly confused.

I slid off the horse and stumbled as pain lanced through my bad foot.

"Ow, ow, ow…" I said through gritted teeth as I hopped about. I let out a shaky breath as I hobbled back to Tristan who promptly dismounted and staggered into me, his leg having given out. This sent us both to the ground, with Tristan landing on top of me, partially at least, and it drove the air from my lungs.

Tristan groaned in pain – no doubt his injuries had just been made much worse.

I couldn't even make a sound. I just lay under him, taking tiny sips of air as my vision clouded from lack of oxygen. Tristan managed to roll off me, but only so far as to lie on his back beside me.

He cursed briefly and I wholeheartedly agreed with the sentiment. In such a state, what a pair we made. After a long moment, I felt ready to try speaking and managed a half-hearted croak. "You alright?" I managed.

There was a neutral grunt, which I took to mean 'no' – but Tristan didn't want to admit he was hurt. I pushed myself up into a sitting position, which took more effort than I'm willing to admit either.

"Let's have a look then…" I said, turning to him. But Tristan slapped my hand away.

"I'm fine," he said, voice choked.

I knew he didn't like me. But he didn't have to; I wasn't going to force him. I got to my feet and went back to Sarakos, fetching the cloak-bundle full of bandages. I wanted to change the dressing on my foot for starters.

More groaning from Tristan as he sat up. I unwrapped my foot while leaning against a tree. It looked alright; clammy and white from all the trapped moisture, but miraculously clean. I poured a little water on it and let the wound dry while I glanced over at Tristan. The man was glaring at me horribly.

"Attend to me!" he snapped, hand clutching at his wounded side. I thought I saw red seeping between his fingers.

"Alright, alright…" I mumbled, setting aside enough bandages for my foot and then limping over to kneel beside him. What was I, his slave?

He groaned as I peeled his tunic up. The bandages were sodden with blood.

"You are such a liar…" I mumbled, shaking my head at him. I got a slap round the cheek from an iron hand for that.

"Don't be so impudent to your betters!" he growled.

I glared at him. "And don't you ever hit me again!" I spat, the shock of the blow, however light, making me vent my frustrations at him. "In case you've forgotten, I saved your life back there – so for the time-being you are reliant on me to get to the fort!"

It wasn't a proper rant – I could have gone on for hours about all my grievances (top of the list being the fact I was there in the first place) but it was what I wanted to say to him. So instead of having to glare into those hateful green, green eyes any longer, I stood and limped back to the bandages for my foot and began to wrap up the wound again.

~oOo~

He stared at her, surprised at her sudden temper. Usually women cowered or even cried once they'd had a hand raised to them. This girl's eyes grew icy as she flew back into the fray with twice as much fury; she had also told him a few uncomfortable truths – he had struck someone he owed his life to. But by all the gods above and below, she was infuriating!

She, meanwhile, was sitting some distance away, bandaging her foot. Sarakos ambled over to her and messed her hair with his velvety lips. Natalya actually smiled at that and she reached up to stroke the horse's head. Tristan realised it was the first time he'd seen her smile – it was even more odd that she had forged such a strong bond with the horse in such a short time. It was a Sarmatian relationship with their horse, not a pesky little Britain's – the scene jarred something in him.

The pain of his injuries eventually forced Tristan to talk to the girl again. He sighed, clutching his wound and praying for deliverance from this monster. He knew the only way to get her attention would be to do what Bors did on countless occasions with Vanora…

"Sorry," he said gruffly. Natalya's back stiffened and she turned around very slowly to stare at him. Her expression was inscrutable.

After staring at him for a moment she sighed too, pushing a hand through her hair, which simply slipped back over her face again. "Apology accepted," she murmured, standing and fetching the bandages. She also snagged an extra waterskin from the harness. Without coming any closer to him, she began to knot some of the bandages together, making a loop. Only then did she limp over to him and re-bandage the wound on his side; her expression was closed and hard, as if she was waiting for him to hit her again. In such close proximity, Tristan could see the red lines already appearing on her pale cheek from his fingers. The sight made him feel worse, despite his continued dislike for the girl: it was dishonourable to treat someone who had saved your life with disrespect. Then she held up the loop of bandages and put it around his neck, making a sling for his injured shoulder. She then leaned back, hands on her knees as she stared at him solemnly.

"And how does your leg feel?" she asked. There was no emotion in her voice; it was as if Tristan had knocked all the goodwill from her with that slap, replacing it with nothing but dutiful attention.

"It will hold," he said truthfully. It wasn't that he didn't trust her to care for it; he just really didn't want her to get him out of his trousers again. The thought was too emasculating.

Then Natalya did something unexpected, she stood, fetched a cloak from Sarakos and returned to wrap it around his shoulders. He looked at her in surprise, but she seemed to ignore his reaction and walked away again with a curt nod. For a rude, stupid girl she was surprisingly thoughtful. He fastened it deftly with one hand and sat watching her. She'd left him the waterskin and some of the food – clearly she was taking some sort of break.

Tristan mulled it over as he nibbled at the jerky – probably venison – and reached the conclusion that he'd been unfair on the girl. While the apology had been a lifesaving necessity, the gift of the cloak from her was an unfathomable gesture. By rights she could have let him catch a chill, but instead she'd shown him kindness in the face of his impulsive brutality. Was she attempting to shame him?

He managed to limp behind a tree to relieve himself when the girl disappeared to probably do likewise. And when he reappeared he noticed her standing by Sarakos, looking about worriedly. So she was truly concerned about him? She didn't… she wasn't attracted to him, surely?

That horrifying theory was mercifully blown out of the water when she caught sight of him and despite the way her shoulders dropped in relief, her face closed into that near-scowl once more. She was still wearing only the light tunic and thin trousers he'd first seen her in, and she looked cold, especially in the way she huddled slightly against Sarakos' shoulder. Tristan felt the breeze's chill and pulled his own cloak a little tighter around his shoulders. Natalya was watching him with hooded eyes as he struggled to walk to her. He made it, but felt physically ill and swayed alarmingly when he reached her. She darted forward and caught him, again showing surprising strength as she threw his good arm over her skinny shoulders and helped him sit down as painlessly as possible.

"Why are you doing this?" he said once she'd given him some water and retrieved the rest of his clothes from Sarakos' harness.

"You need my help," she said simply. It wasn't enough for Tristan. Her selflessness reminded him of Dagonet or Arthur – they pitied those who were too weak or afraid to help themselves, even at the cost of their own safety.

"But why? Even after…" he trailed off, biting his tongue. To give voice to what he'd done would be to shatter the tense peace they had recreated.

"After you hit me?" she said. Well, if she was going to say it…

She actually smiled self-consciously as she considered his question. "I suppose because I've already worked hard to save you, I'd hate to see all that effort go to waste simply because you're being ungracious about it." She sighed, looking him straight in the eye for once. The shock of those piercing, clear eyes staring into his, still marred by that awful iciness from before, seemingly reached inside with reptilian precision and looked around at what went on in his head.

But that was impossible. No one could do that.

"I apologise," he said, fighting the bile that was rising with the words. "I swear on all my gods and yours that I will guarantee your safety until I can repay the life debt." The words felt like vinegar, but he was honour-bound to say them. The notion of this brat being tied to him filled him with a strange nausea.

Natalya pulled away from him, her face falling into shadow as her hair fell around her face. But her expression was slightly more relaxed. "Then let's get you to a real surgeon: you're long overdue some stitches and willow-bark tea." She said, and the lightness was back in her voice again, as if they had just been discussing the weather or patrol rotas. But the eyes were still cold.

Trying to instil respect by force had failed miserably, Tristan surmised. But he had won her co-operation and good will when he had been kind. Or at least, not hitting her and shouting at her. She shook out his clothes and helped him to dress in his outer tunic and surcoat as the afternoon's chill intensified. She, by contrast, had nothing to keep her warm. Tristan resolved to share the cloak with her when they were on the horse again. Generosity didn't come naturally to the scout – not in the same way killing or intimidating did. He didn't have to remind himself that they were tied together now by a life debt. He had given voice to it and sworn to protect her.

What had he been thinking?