“But I could use a roll of cheese and dried meat for the road,” he added. “Won’t you be a sweetheart and pack it up for me?”
Wolfe flicked his glance up just in time to catch his companion’s flirtatious wink.
It almost made him smile. The corner of his lips twitched with muscle memory, but didn’t quite manage to tip up.
Though he’d always think of Tristan, who was now a formidable, well-tested warrior in his own right, as the “boy,” he was very much his own man. Had been for a number of years already.
A couple of years ago, he’d grown into his full height, and was still filling out the width of his shoulders and the depth of his chest. He was a man’s man, now, equipped with plenty of chest hair, pit hair and a scruffy beard. A golden, rugged, square-jawed, blue-eyed devil who was quick to smile, comfortable in his own skin, and generally at peace with the world.
Women of all ages adored him, and he happily partook of a wide variety of favors. From extra puddings from the buxom cooks and casual kisses from fair milkmaids, to blatant fawning by husband-seekers and innocent worship from little lasses in pigtails.
He managed to stay unwed, however, though his uncle had tried to call him back to Cornubia for an arranged marriage to a woman named Iseult.
The lady was reputed to be a ravishing beauty, well-versed in all manner of feminine arts. Not that Wolfe knew what those entailed. It seemed like a favorable arrangement for the young warrior. To sweeten the deal, the bride would bring a large dowry.
But Tristan refused. He didn’t even bother making the trek to see her in person before he sent his regrets. Which led to the uncle disowning him and marrying the lady himself.
He much preferred to fight off invaders with Wolfe and Arthur on the front lines, Tristan said. Which was likely true. But Wolfe wondered whether there was something else that stopped him as well.
The boy never said.
Since the defeat of the white dragon, which had become more myth than legend, as the body had turned to stone immediately after the beheading, and over time, became part of the cavern’s foundations, Tristan became a true partner to Wolfe, less of an untried lad he’d taken under his wing.
Tristan trained hard, fought harder, and broke just as many hearts of the female variety as he skewered of the male variety with his blade on the battlefield. Along with Lancelot and Wolfe, he joined the most elite ranks of King Arthur’s inner circle of warriors.
After losing his nobility and cutting all ties with his uncle, Tristan was thrust into the world of bastard rogue warriors for the first time in his relatively privileged life. A world made of men like Wolfe. Because he’d already spent so much time dogging Wolfe’s heels from a young age, he didn’t feel much difference.
Even so, Lancelot formally brought Tristan into his own family’s coat of arms, making Tristan his heir, as Lancelot didn’t ever intend to marry and therefore had no legitimate offspring.
Wolfe suspected that the warrior was never the same after Guinevere. And neither was Arthur.
Lancelot never shared with anyone what he suffered as one of her pawns, but Wolfe knew a wrecked man when he saw one. His eyes might no longer be blank, but there was also no light in them.
Lancelot poured all of his strength into rebuilding Briton with Arthur. He was Arthur’s fiercest and most devoted knight and led the charge in every battle. Tristan was his second. And as Lancelot’s charge, Tristan took his name—Tristan du Lac.
Wolfe never dwelled on his lack of birthright, but he wished he could have given Tristan his own coat of arms. But he’d never had one and never would. The boy was half like a brother, half like a son, and fully Wolfe’s closest friend.
He was well pleased with how Tristan fared, however. There was no warrior more revered in all the land than Lancelot. Tristan would learn warrior skills and other graces from Lancelot that Wolfe would never be able to provide. In return, Lancelot loved Tristan like a true son. The sunny, light-hearted young man filled a void in the older knight that his troubled past had left.
As for Wolfe himself…
He fought just as hard for Arthur’s wars. Won just as many battles. Together, they pushed the invading tribes back and brought peace to the isles.
Arthur wanted to grant Wolfe a title of nobility. He wanted Wolfe to join his court and claim him as a brother in truth. He even proposed making Wolfe his heir.
Arthur never intended to marry, just like Lancelot. Whatever feminine partnership he needed for a balanced rule, his half-sister Morgan provided it. They reigned over Briton together in harmony. Morgan was his trusted adviser and confidante. There was much affection between the siblings.
Morgan, for her part, did remarry and produce a couple of brats. She was a doting mother, though Wolfe rather suspected less of a doting wife. She was simply too strong to bow to any man. And heaven forfend should her ire be raised. The red witch had a combustible temper and wasn’t shy about using her spells.
Thus, Arthur still needed an heir. He wanted it to be Wolfe.
But Wolfe refused.
Now that his work was done, he yearned for solitude and seclusion. Camelot, Arthur’s new stronghold, was bustling with vibrancy and action. Too many people. Too much trade. The noises made Wolfe’s head hurt. He’d always been most content when he was alone, away from crowds.
Besides, his heart simply wasn’t in it.
He did everything he could to support Arthur in beating back invaders and stabilizing his rule. He helped recruit warriors into Arthur’s elite guard—the Knights of the Round Table, as troubadours dubbed them. (Though Wolfe never understood where the moniker came from, since they never sat at any round table in any of the gatherings Wolfe had been part of).