Chapter 7

So I was a boy… that bastard Tristan probably had his reasons (unfathomable though they were), but that surgeon had said some pretty disgusting things to me while bandaging my foot. And by disgusting, I mean topics concerning if I put out for a fee. Or if he could at least have a look.

I knew I should be using this sort of attraction to my advantage… but I had been more preoccupied with not attacking the greybeard with my bare hands. The men were all so… offhand about it! Even Tristan was implying that we were on more than just speaking terms.

As I lay on the narrow cot, I reassessed my situation…

One: I was now considered a boy. This meant I had to dredge up some latent and deeply far-fetched acting ability to remain convincing.

Two: I was Tristan's slave. This meant that I'd be kept close and moderately under his protection. Although the way everyone was looking at me, I was starting to think that slaves were fair game for a little midnight sodomy.

Three: as a slave, I'd have to get used to being harassed, treated like shit and unreasonable working hours. But I'd done waitressing in a vodka bar, which wasn't much different to be honest, especially on a Saturday night. So that only left becoming accustomed to beatings.

Yup, things were looking bleak.

I just had to convince Tristan that if he thought working me to death would mean he could escape the life debt, he had another thing coming. Namely a knife to the throat.

But then I noticed, through half-closed eyes, the way the assistant was staring at me. Oh bugger. So I got up and tip-toed over to Tristan's cot. I didn't care if I was too close to him – right now I didn't like my chances against all the perverts in the fort. So I sank down on the stone floor by his head, intending to sleep there. He glared at me, but I'd take another slap over being groped any day.

Oh ho, time to experiment with a little manipulation. Did this guy have a soft spot for the damsel in distress?

I tucked my hands under my cheek and stared up at him with the most melting expression I could muster. "Please don't leave me alone here," I whispered softly.

I didn't expect him to sigh, and then pat the cot next to him invitingly.

Was he serious? Jackpot…

Sensing the assistant' eyes on us, I was obliged to maintain the ridiculous pretence of obeisance to this bastard. So I climbed onto the cot and curled up against his uninjured side, facing away from him. This was so unbelievably awkward… But lying in a proper bed, safe from the perverts, all my body wanted to do was sleep. I sighed, wrapping my arms around my knees, grateful to Tristan while simultaneously furious at his lies and terrified of the morning to come.

Sometime during the night I must have rolled over because I awoke to find my face pressed against the surprisingly soft material of a tunic that enshrouded the shoulder of a certain grumpy 'master'. My arms were mercifully pinned between my chest and Tristan's arm, so there was no hugging – but I wasn't the only sleeping lecher. Oh no, he had reciprocated and pressed his face against the crown of my head. Snuggled together like a pair of chaste lovers with the entire infirmary standing witness.

This was just great. At least Tristan hadn't woken up yet.

With the stealth of a hunting cat, I carefully sat up and climbed off the cot. Tristan must have exhausted himself yesterday, because he slept on. Lazy bugger.

I limped back to my own cot and as I sat down, raised voices were approaching the infirmary. I wrapped the blanket about my shoulders and listened to the approaching men.

"… had us worried sick! And Kay…" said one. It sounded suddenly saddened at the mention of this 'Kay'.

"Don't dwell on it lad, we'll have our answers soon enough,"

"Where's he been hiding the past day?"

"More to the point, how did he get here in the state he was in?"

"Apparently there's some boy with him,"

"Boy? I didn't think Tristan swung that w—"

The door was kicked open and the man's voice choked momentarily as they all stared at me. Then he let the rest of the sentence fall out. "—ay… erm… I stand corrected," the man said, a nauseated tone in his voice. He was a boy really – late teens, but with a well-developed physique and dark brown curls that clustered thickly above a boyish face.

"Just who in hell is this?" thundered the especially loud, shaven-headed man, he was older and had a long, knotted scar running down his forehead. Powerfully built, and fierce, he seemed the most likely to hit me and ask the questions once he was sure I'd comply.

I simply stared at them silently, drawing a mask of calm over my face. They couldn't kill me and wouldn't rape me – anything else rather paled into insignificance.

Then I heard Tristan wake up, he was automatically tense and alert. "Wha—?" he paused, recognised the men bearing down on us and relaxed again. "What are you doing here?" he said icily.

"Oh, a fine greeting!" said the shaven one sarcastically. "Why did we bother to ride here?"

"We feared the worst when your horse returned Kay's body to us yesterday," said the long-haired one. It hung about his shoulders in chestnut curls, and very blue eyes. Handsome devil, really.

"So Kay didn't make it," Tristan said – his voice was flat and inexpressive, but I knew from yesterday that he had been saddened by the thought of his… comrade's?… death. At least his horse made it.

"No, and we'd almost given up on you when the messenger arrived with news you'd crashed into the fort with some pretty boy on Sarakos and sporting severe injuries," said the youngster. "And now we find it's true!"

I kept very still as their collective gaze slammed onto me.

I kept up my blank stare. What else could I do? Leap off the bed and start saying it was all a ghastly lie concocted by a half-dead lunatic? If ever I got out of this place, I would quit university and take up a career in acting.

Tristan's eyes were narrowed with suspicion as he stared at me. If only I could have winked back reassuringly. Instead, I blinked at him slowly and then tried to stand up, only to have the really big, loud man march over, place a very heavy hand on the front of my tunic and yank me upright free of charge. My hair, still all over the place from sleep, fell over my face as I was dragged towards the others. I raised my head quickly and found myself staring at the three newcomers at much closer quarters.

Eek.

I think I must have let a hiss of fear escape from between my teeth; because I twisted myself out of the bald man's hold and almost fell onto Tristan's cot. The frame rocked slightly and Tristan didn't seem the least bit inclined to save me now. So much for life debts.

"Well? Who is he?" the long haired man asked, folding his arms as he stared at me.

"Picked him up at Uxelodunum," Tristan grunted.

"Never thought you were one for the deliciae, Tris," said the youngest looking man. He stared at me with something akin to revulsion. Whatever, kid – I'd seen scarier kittens.

"I'm not," Tristan said, sounding very grumpy.

"Even I can see you why though," the long-haired one, pretending he hadn't heard Tristan's negation. "With those looks any number of Romans would want his arse," he didn't sound too impressed either, despite his appreciation of my physical aesthetics.

I shuddered involuntarily and drew the blanket tighter about myself. I knew that Tristan had said he would protect me… but I was still getting used to the idea of being an object of lust. I had to find some means of self-protection as soon as possible; a knife perhaps…

"Well now he's mine," Tristan said, he fell back onto the pillow with a heavy sigh. "I'll tell you the whole sorry saga later so get out of my face and let me rest." I limped to the table, fetching a jug of water and a cup for my 'master'. Bloody hell, that was getting old fast. The sooner I could escape the better. I could feel the men's eyes on me as I knelt down next to Tristan and helped him sit up a little to drink.

"Isn't that just sweet?" the big bald one said in a sickening tone of voice. I'd kept my face forcibly impassive the whole time and so had Tristan – this was a dangerous act, deceiving his friends. "They're both cold-faced!" the man explained with a bark of laughter. I got up and was about to replace the jug and cup when the 'comedian' grabbed me again, even more forcibly. I kept my eyes lowered and braced on the balls of my feet – here it comes…

"Listen here, lad," he growled at me.

Maybe not.

"You try anything – anything – and I'll hang you from the Wall by your ankles until your head falls off!"

Considering my unique circumstances it was hardly a threat. I snorted and turned it into a cough before nodding earnestly.

"What's your name?" he breathed into my face. I tried not to wrinkle my nose at the smell, so I blinked rapidly and kept very still. "Well?" the man said, shaking my shoulder – his grip was bruising and it wasn't even his sword hand.

I pitched my voice a tone or two lower than usual and said in a very soft voice, as husky as I could make it: "Don't have one,"

"I haven't named him yet, Bors," Tristan said wearily.

Finally I had a name to put to this man; I glanced at him slyly and then caught the other two looking between Tristan and me. Clearly this was out-of-character behaviour for Tristan. Had I put him – and my extension myself – in danger?