Secrets

The great Bonfire roared in the clearing, its flames leaking at the sky as if it wanted to devour the darkness. A few clouds played hide and seek with the moon, but not as many to be threatening. A perfect night indeed. Britons danced around the fire, drums, flutes and pipes playing merry tunes to accompany flying feet and flaying limbs. Beltane at its best. The festivities would go way through the night, with inebriated couples forming and disappearing into the forest. Some would stay, dancing into the night until the musicians themselves passed out from too much ale.

It was the perfect cover for their own private feast. Who would suspect anything if Tristan and Isolde disappeared for the night? Not even his brothers would find strange that he might want to partake in the Beltane ritual. He could spot Galahad, Gawain and Lancelot already, trying to woo young ladies with flowers in their hair. Tavern wenches, mostly, or a few merchant's daughter who had escaped their household. They had put every effort in looking desirable this evening, but he knew none of them would hold a candle to his Isolde. Bless her for crossing his path! Bless the spirits that the Romans were too stupid to understand where she came from.

He knew Arthur would spent the night in prayer to avoid watching the debauchery; this was Beltane after all. And if his commander remained ignorant of Isolde's past, it was just as well. Fortunately, they had managed to keep Bors out of it; he was of baby-sitting duty. Nothing could ever remain secret when this great oaf was included … and certainly not a secret wedding. To think he had not even realised that his lover was pregnant again! For sure, Vanora didn't need the Beltane ritual to conceive a child. Nothing went past the scout; her temper was even worse than usual.

Tristan shrugged. He didn't care in an eleventh child was about to pop out of the waitress, as long as she and Isolde could continue their friendship. A female companion had done wonders for his little seamstress. She worried far too much whenever he left; he needed someone to care for her when he was away. And if his reputation protected her from Romans and bandits alike, the loss of her mother figure had deprived her of much-needed support.

Had Vanora put flowers in her hair too?

The scout had never been so clean, not even after his first bath, thirty years ago. Nor so well dressed. Dagonet had not joked when he had taken him to the bathhouse for the purification ritual. It was a wonder there still was some skin on his bones. His hair tamed, braids out of his face, for once, Tristan felt … worthy. At his collar, the embroideries of the Yazigues stood proudly. Of course, Isolde had not stopped at the shirt. She had also sewn a pair of pants in sturdy cotton – from Egypt! – and a vest that crossed on his chest.

Gold thread decorated the hem and collar, thread he had negotiated from a merchant they escorted to the fort … intimidated, perhaps, was closer to the truth, but damn! This piece of green silk and linen was the prefect cloth for Isolde's wedding dress, and it went so nicely with the golden embroidery thread. The moment he had seen the flamboyant colour, he knew she would look ravishing in it. So who cared if he might have scared the merchant into selling it at a ridiculous price, eh? Isolde would look resplendent.

As he circled the bonfire, Dagonet in tow, Tristan caught sight of Vanora on the other side of the clearing. And beside Vanora… The scout gasped. Isolde walked regally, nervous, but radiant. Even more beautiful than he expected her to be. The flames danced in her hair, braided intricately then left free to tumble over her exposed collarbone. The ringlets, adorned with spring flowers, brushed the subtle curve of her lower back. Even in the dark, the deep green colour of the cloth contrasted with her pale skin. The silk within caused it to shine, a smooth piece of cloth that barely hid her shoulders, hugging the beauty of her womanly curves like the softest of sheets.

His eyes travelled upwards, catching Isolde's gaze. Funny, how she always knew his attention lingered upon her. The fire danced in her irises, and she watched him with as much wonder as he watched her. She was … magnificent.

"Move, Tristan. You're going to sell us."

Dagonet's amused interjection called the scout back to reality, but Tristan didn't even find the heart to curse himself for his distraction. Drinking the beauty of his wife-to-be would never be wrong, right? He nodded to Isolde, and resumed his trek around the huge bonfire. For too long a moment, she was lost from sight. Then she appeared again, walking straight ahead to prevent from being spotted. And despite her great beauty, he was glad that no man tried to stop her. The men of the fort knew all too well she was his woman. Good. The ploy meant for protection was now one of possession.

Tristan's pace increased; he wanted to be the one to greet her at the stream, not the other way around. It was with great regret that he left the women behind on the path, his heart beating faster than ever.

Fifty yards behind him, Vanora was chuckling at Isolde's nerves.

"Are you sure that no one saw us?" she asked, careful to lift her heavy skirts to protect them from the bushes.

The light was dim under the forest trees, but the moon offered enough to see the path.

"Sure. No one would dare following Tristan in the forest anyway."

Isolde nodded, her heart beating so wildly that it caused the raw silk to pulse upon her breast.

"You are as crazy as our scout, but I have to give you that. A forbidden wedding is soooo romantic!"

The young woman nodded absently, her nerves fluttering. The enormity of what she was going to do caused her throat to tighten. She, who had been raised in strict Christianity principles, taught to remain pure until her wedding day to a Roman noble, was about to handfast a Sarmatian knight with pagan roots. A warm hand landed on the crisp cloth of her dress, causing her step to falter.

"Wha …?"

Vanora, resolved face in place, was giving her a stern look. The redhead had adorned her best dress of light wool – even if it was tight in the middle – and braided her hair beautifully. It was little wonder Bors was jealous if he thought she was going to attend Beltane dressed like this. But they couldn't risk him to be present.

"Relax. It will be fine."

Isolde wasn't too convinced, but she wasn't about to contradict Vanora. Biting her lip, she waited for her friend to start walking again, or chat her ear off. The waitress chose the second option, shaking her arm forcefully.

"Dag and I have hidden your bedroll in the clearing further up. None of those drunkards will find you up there."

The knot in her chest was getting stronger, and Isolde felt keenly the loss of her mother figure. To think that neither the seamstress, nor her real mother could be here to witness the most important event of her life… Tears welled in her eyes, and she found herself surrounded by a set of strong arms.

"Hush, Isolde. We are here, Tristan is here. You will be alright."

The young woman laid her head on her friend's shoulder and shuddered. She had chosen her fate by fleeing her parents' house, so why did she feel so lonely? Isolde took a deep breath, and straightened, grabbing Vanora's forearms.

"Thank you, Vanora. I don't know what I would do without you."

The waitress brushed her concern away, her eyes shining more than usual.

"Weep when your man's away. Let's go, I want to see this."

Yes. And do did Isolde. So they walked some more, Vanora taking the lead as they progressed in the forest. Little by little, the music faded, and so did the bonfire that barely created a spot of orange light in the distance. Vanora branched from the main path, cursing about bushes and scouts who couldn't wait one more year to get married in a public spot. Fortunately, Dagonet had left pieces of cloth along the way to guide them, else she might have got lost already.

At last, they penetrated in a clearing under the light of the moon. The torch, brought by the giant for the occasion, was planted on the ground like a beacon. The gentle gurgle of a stream nearby echoed in the clearing, welcoming the two women under the moonlight.

"At last!" Vanora huffed.

Her annoyance should have made Isolde laugh, but her mouth was dry. For beside the torch stood Tristan, dressed with the clothes she had made for him. Hours and hours of work, for a result that warmed her heart. He was more handsome than ever, with his beard trimmed and face exposed. His sharp cheekbone reflected the moonlight, two sets of arrows marking him as royalty. His hair, all silk, held a few braids that lingered in his neck. And his eyes were boring holes into her, so intense that her knees trembled.

By the Gods, he was beautiful. Seeing her frozen on the spot, Tristan approached swiftly, and offered the traditional bouquet of hyacinths and mayflowers for her to take. He'd kept a white button, and two purple bells for himself, fixed upon his breast.

Hand trembling, Isolde gathered the flowers, brushing his calloussed fingers in the process. Tristan engulfed her hands entirely, his warmth seeping through.

"You look like a Queen, Isolde," he breathed.

The sound of his smooth voice caused all else to disappear. Isolde forgot she was in a forest, forgot that Dagonet and Vanora awaited them further away. For a moment, nothing else existed than Tristan, and his earnest gaze fixed upon her.

"If I am a Queen, then you are King of my heart."

Tristan's lips quirked in that private smile she adored.

"Nonsense," he responded. "I will be my lady's knight. Are you ready?"

She had been his woman for so long … to make him her knight was only fair. Isolde nodded and, linking her arm into his, allowed Tristan to lead her beside the blazing torch. Its flame stood out like a beacon in the silent forest, a testimony of their love in those troubled times.