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Guinevere doesn’t even see Tristan coming until he has her against the wall, braced with a solid forearm across her chest. She tries to go for the knife at her hip, but he is quicker and easily pins her hand to the stone.
“You play with fire, little girl,” Tristan says, his voice low and quiet. His eyes burn into Guinevere’s, who makes a point to meet his gaze even as she squirms against his hold.
“I know naught of which you speak,” she huffs out, trying at least to wiggle her wrist free, but to no avail. Maybe she could match him with a bow, but not in this test of sheer strength.
“You toy with the hearts of my brothers. That is not something I take lightly.” For a moment, Tristan’s hold on her wrist tightens painfully, long enough to cease her struggling, and loosens again. She scowls at him, at his accusation, and gives one last useless shove against him as she rapidly thinks of what he could know and what she could possibly say.
“My heart belongs to Arthur. My husband . You know that," Guinevere growls out, but she can see the man knows the truth. Tristan is a quiet man, and he often falls to the wayside in a room filled with the rest of Arthur’s obnoxious knights, but he pays attention. He watches from the shadows and the words he speaks always hold weight. If only to prove her right, Tristan’s mouth twists into a caustic sneer, which she turns her cheek to.
“And yet you’ve been prancing around with Lancelot.” She hisses at him, but his weight bearing down on her shoulders renders her harmless and they both know it. His sneer drops away. “I will tell you this once and only once, Guinevere, so listen carefully.” His voice is still calm, although his eyes betray a depth of anger she’s never seen in the silent archer before.
When her eyes finally meet his steady gaze again and he is sure she will mark every word, he continues. “I have accepted your love of Arthur for I have seen it to be true, but you do not love Lancelot the way you believe you do and I will not idly watch my brothers be lead to ruin by a harlot.” Guinevere bares her teeth at the insult, but Tristan lifts his arm off her chest and quickly places his hand over her throat to keep her silent. His fingers are rough and calloused, but he is delicate even as he applies pressure. There will be no marks. “You are married to our king, my brother. You will share his bed and only his, or I will cut you down myself.” His threat of regicide is as measured as the rest of what he’s said since he’s accosted her and she knows he means it just as much.
“Arthur is my king and husband,” Guinevere consents with a curl of her lip, “but I love Lancelot and you cannot keep me from him.”
“Do not speak to me of love,” Tristan snarls, losing his composure for a beat before reining himself back, “for I have seen the way you look at my brothers.” Even with a calm countenance, Tristan’s eyes blaze in a way that terrifies Guinevere, though she would never admit to it. “You look at Lancelot like he hung the moon and the stars in the sky and I promise you he did not. He may have saved your life, but that is no basis for love. It is infatuation at best and someday you will tire of him and leave. You will not lead my brother along with your touches and promises only to leave him broken in the end. His care for you is true; yours for him I know is not.” The fire in Tristan’s eyes dims and suddenly he looks so sad and so very tired. When he continues, his voice is barely above a breath. “Be satisfied with your husband, Guinevere. Arthur loves you truly and the way you look upon him like the world settles with his presence is enough for me to believe that you feel the same.”
Tristan’s entire presence had shifted between speaking of Guinevere’s relations to her lover and her husband, and for a moment she relaxes her guarded posture as she wonders how Tristan could know these things. Tristan speaks out of love for his brothers-in-arms, yes, but there is something more. Something in his eyes and the way his teeth ground together that Guinevere has never witnessed before. Years of watching from the shadows could not teach him these things. Lessons of the heart must be learned firsthand and Tristan had shown Guinevere tonight that he knew far more about the heart than he wore on his sleeve.
“What would you want of me, Tristan?” Guinevere asks quietly, once again of the calloused hand against her windpipe. Tristan has long fingers. Archer’s hands. Almost long enough to wrap around her delicate throat.
“You will see Lancelot once more and never again. One more meeting to tell him your liaison has finished. And, know this, dear sister. I will know of your actions. I will be watching you closely. Both of you.” Tristan waits just long enough for Guinevere to swallow roughly and nod in begrudged agreement before releasing her swiftly and disappearing down the dark hallway. Gentle, Guinevere cradles her wrist where she can still feel the heat and the crushing force of her assailant’s grip, but she knows there is nothing to show for it. Tristan is a clever soldier. Come morning, there will be no evidence that what has occurred this night happened at all, save her ended affair with Lancelot.
Guinevere will not risk Tristan’s wrath, and she will no longer carelessly risk her marriage. Although unhappy, she must resentfully acknowledge that her love and duty to Arthur far outweighed the fun and games she indulges in with his sworn brother, Lancelot.