But nothing Enru or Bèatrix said would dissuade Tristan. He felt something different when he was around Bronwyn, not just the physical attraction to her body, but something else, something bigger, beyond all of them. He knew, somehow, that she was right.
And so he continued, in small, unobtrusive ways, to show her that he was still there, he remembered her. He knew his own reputation in the village; scores of girls had had their hearts and reputations broken because of him, over the years, and by now his former flames were mothers with daughters of their own they were warning away from him.
He didn’t care about that now. He kept on, bringing small surprises to Bronwyn. Once, a jar of honey, so sweet it seemed sinful. Occasionally, he would rise before even she did and have the fire ready for her in the morning, though he was always careful to be gone before she woke. She rarely saw him, but he made his presence known to her.
It was in October, when his small gifts became sporadic due to the harvest, that Bronwyn finally decided to take matters into her own hands. She was eighteen, by now; her birthday had passed unobserved in mid-August. A woman, by the law and the eyes of everyone. So one night, she added some herbs that induced sleep into the herbs, and breathed a hefty sigh of relief when Tristan did not appear. She did not partake of the dinner herself, claiming a stomachache, and went to bed early, waiting for Enru and Bèatrix to start their snoring competition. It wasn’t long before the rafters were shaking.
Smiling to herself, Bronwyn slipped out of bed, sliding on her dress and cloak silently, clutching her riding boots in her hand. She went to the kitchen, where the embers kept it warm, and finished dressing in there. The door to the yard swung open easily; Tristan had oiled it several days before.
The night was cold, but Bronwyn saddled Trylla quickly and mounted, and in a matter of minutes she was following the path up the mountain to Tristan’s little cottage. The moon was full, lighting her path with its cool silvery light, sparkling in the frost that touched the grass.
A light was burning in the window when Bronwyn finally came in sight of Tristan’s cottage. The beehives glimmered whitely like ghosts as she dismounted and took off Trylla’s saddle, placing a blanket over the horse’s back from the pack she’d slung over her shoulder as she left.
The door to the cottage opened, and Tristan came out, holding a candle aloft. It danced in the soft breeze, casting crazy shadows over the ground.
“Hello?” he called, his voice guarded. “Is anyone out there?” He paused, his breath coming in clouds as he took a few steps toward Bronwyn. She stood tall, walking forward to meet him.
“Hello, Tristan,” she said softly, her voice husky.
He nearly dropped the candle in surprise. “Bronwyn!” he whispered loudly, though there was no one within several miles to hear them. “What are you doing here?” He looked at Trylla, already dozing in the chill night air.
“I’ve come to see you. It seems there is a conspiracy to keep us apart.” She paused, searching his face. “Are you unhappy with me?” she asked.
Tristan stared at her, his face still stricken with the shock of her clandestine visit. “Of course not,” he said, recovering himself. He gave her a warm smile. “Let’s get you out of the cold, shall we?”
A few flakes of snow fell in the crystalline air and Bronwyn smiled, brushing them off his shoulders. “All right. It’s starting to snow, anyhow.”
“I’ll take Trylla to my stable. It’s small but she’ll fit in with Jethro, no problem. You go on inside and get warm; you must be freezing.” Tristan took Trylla’s lead rope and led her away. Bronwyn slipped inside the door to his cottage, finding the teakettle screaming and two mugs set out on the table.
Smiling to herself, Bronwyn set about pouring the tea into a pot and steeping the leaves into a potent herbal drink. While it brewed she sliced some coarse brown bread and retrieved some butter from the cooler to spread on it. As she was arranging all this on the table Tristan came in, stamping.
“The snow is really coming down,” he said with a worried frown. “You should be getting back.”
“I just got here,” objected Bronwyn softly. “Besides, the tea is ready. At least a cup?” He reluctantly nodded, and sat across from her, holding the warm mug in his cold hands. Bronwyn regarded him with gleaming dark blue eyes.
“What are you doing here?” he asked at last, and Bronwyn set her mug down, watching the swirl of the amber liquid within.
“I haven’t seen you in several months, but I’ve seen signs of you. The kitchen door hinges being oiled, jars of honey appearing in the kitchen…” She smiled at him. “And there were two mugs out when I came in. Were you expecting company?”
Tristan opened his mouth, seeing the trap. “I was meditating and I saw you on the path, and I saw the storm coming, so I figured I might as well get the tea going.”
Bronwyn reached across the table and touched his hand. “Thank you,” she said quietly, watching him.
He smiled and looked at where her hand was reaching for his, and he gave in, clasping her fingers around his. He raised his eyes to hers and sighed. “You’ve probably heard all kinds of rumors about me,” he said heavily.
“I don’t believe a single one,” declared Bronwyn abruptly. Tristan winced.
“You should,” he said swiftly, loudly. “Most of them are true. I’ve hurt a lot of girls, and their-our children.”
Bronwyn was silent, pale-faced. “How many?” she said brusquely., her hand tensing in his. He set his mug down and cupped her hand in both of his.
“Seven, eight, by last count. Could be as high as a dozen," said Tristan miserably. He stroked her fingers, unable to meet her gaze.
“Let me ask you something,” said Bronwyn after a pause. Tristan glanced at her, and she held his eyes, looking at him steadily. “Do you feel that?”
“Feel what?” Tristan feigned ignorance, but Bronwyn caught him. She shook her head violently.
“You know what. It’s-it’s like…” She broke off, not wanting to sound trite like the older girls at Appleby Manor.
Tristan spared her. “Yes,” he said, dropping her hands and grabbing his mug again. He looked at the tea inside, and back at her. “Is that what you wanted? That I think of you every waking moment? Or that when I see you about your duties I wonder and hope that you’re thinking of me?”
Bronwyn’s heart leapt in her throat but she shook her head. “No. It’s bigger than that. It feels like a great storm is gathering, like there’s electricity in the air. It gets hard to breathe, like it’s humid, and everything becomes sharper, more detailed.” She pursed her lips, withdrawing her hands to her lap, staring at the contents of her own mug.
“Yes,” murmured Tristan. “I don’t want to but I do.” His voice broke and Bronwyn looked at him sympathetically.
“I bet Bèatrix threatened you to keep you away from me, didn’t she?” she asked gently. Tristan nodded. “And you promised, and want to respect that promise. She made me, too,” she said, and Tristan chuckled, grabbing a slice of bread and stuffing it in his mouth, chewing in silence.
He swallowed and took a draught from his mug. “So where does that leave us? We’re already betraying our word by being here together, and by the looks of it, you’ll end up here for the night. It’ll be too dangerous at night to go down the mountain.”
Bronwyn stood, gathering the empty mugs. “Well,” she said. “It’s bound to be a cold night. Shall I get a stew going?” She raised her eyebrows, purposefully ignoring the bed just visible in the room over Tristan’s right shoulder.
“I think the time for food is passing,” said Tristan, standing and facing her. She stared at him, ghost-pale and trembling. He took the mugs gently from her grasp and setting them on the table, then gathered her hands in his, looking at them. “Your hands were so soft and pretty when you came here…Now they’re losing that delicacy, but you can tell how fine-boned you are.” He squeezed them gently, feeling the small bones move beneath his fingers.
“Tristan-“ said Bronwyn, suddenly unsure, but he looked at her, a glance so swift and fierce that it pierced her soul. He drew her close and kissed her, gently at first, then rough.
Bronwyn embraced him with enthusiasm, feeling the lean muscles beneath her palms. She sighed, melting against him, and he grabbed a candle from the table, leading her to the bedroom.
Bronwyn ignored all the alarm bells ringing in her head, all the honest parts of her integrity, and willingly followed him.
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