A/N – a slow chapter for a change of pace. Enjoy!

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Dusk came early this time of the year and it was late afternoon when Tristan finally found some time to himself. He wished for a bath but ruefully decided there wasn't enough time. He had been North of the Wall following up on Cara's directions to the meeting place where she was used to leaving messages and supplies for the Briton traitor, her lover. Tristan had to admit it was a clever arrangement. The upper branches of the ancient densely canopied tree offered excellent perches for resting and observing activities inside the fort and the surrounding area. It was obviously well used – there was even a seat of sorts. His abused knee still protested the climb, worthwhile though it had been.

On his return he met with Senna –who had been busy with his large staff - to apprise him of the unexpected development. He also relayed a request from Lord Marius' wife Fulcinia for food and medical supplies for refugees. Dani had told Tristan how that lady had taken charge of the survivors from her husband's estate. She cared for the people who worked her late husband's land, and it was clear they looked to her. The administrator had listened carefully, making no comment about the small grin Tristan hadn't been able to wipe away all afternoon.

'You have a plan,' Senna said instead.

'The beginnings of one,' Tristan admitted.

Dani had long disappeared on errands of her own. She would put in appearance soon enough though as Arthur had called the company to supper, and goodbye, thankfully minus the Bishop and his party. As he left Senna, Tristan wondered how the British knights would react, Lancelot in particular. Privately he thought that Lancelot's mercurial temperament, constitution for ale and penchant for settling arguments with his fist or blade would make him an excellent Briton, and the thought brought on yet another small grin.

In the flickering light of torches, the fort was a beehive of final preparations, and goodbyes. Early next morning a caravan would leave with families going South, some for safer locations and others for the coast. Gates into town had been thrown open and people thronged everywhere – strangers, acquaintances, even a few friends. Auxiliaries and men of the town militia mingled – albeit warily - with Woads; Merlin was making good of his promise.

Despite his urgency, Tristan slowed down, wanting to commit the place to memory and give his throbbing knee some rest. On a street he saw Cunomori' apprentice talking animatedly with Ganis, one of the villagers from Marius' estate. Ganis, he recalled, had been itching for a chance to fight and lent help to Jols on the trail. Cunomori – an acid tongued shaven-headed old Pict who ran a leather goods store Tristan patronized - stood with the younger men, caressing the shaft of an old war spear and looking happy for the first time the scout had seen. Young men, the scout thought wryly, and men young at heart think war is glory.

Tristan moved along briskly towards the knights' stable, not stopping to speak to his young apprentice friend but acknowledging him with a nod. As he had told Senna, he had the beginnings of a plan but no idea as yet how to set it in motion. He wanted solitude to think but finding solitude in the bustling little fort was not easy.

'Hello girl,' the scout greeted his mare affectionately; Grey hung her head over the stall door and looked at him with intelligent eyes. Tristan scratched and petted her, but the animal was more interested in his pocket, where she could smell an apple core. Laughing, the knight offered it to her.

'You're in a good mood, Sir Tristan,' Gilly poked his head out from one of the inner stalls where he was combing a dappled old gelding the size of a pony. The gelding looked out of place among the much larger warhorses. The boy looked glum.

'And you are not,' the knight observed, adding by way of thanks, 'Grey looks well.' The once unsocial knight had become familiar over the past year with Bors' two eldest – Gilly and Two. Dani had made a gift of her old gelding Merak to Gilly in exchange for his help with her new mare and a filly she had acquired. Jols noticed the boy's aptitude with horses and apprenticed him in the knights' stable. Two had apprenticed to the healers and worshipped Dani. The young siblings were responsible and levelheaded, and the knight approved of them. Thus he was surprised to see the sullen look on Gilly's face.

'Da, he told me to hitch Merak to Ma's cart, make ready to leave tomorrow,' the boy confided. 'Da always said he'd stay, and Dagonet with us.' Tristan recalled Bors talking with Dagonet about staying on in Britain and founding a town. He and Vanora had a head start already populating a small village; the knight pressed his lips together to suppress another smile.

'That was before the Saxons,' he reminded Gilly gravely instead, 'and Dagonet at death's door.'

'But it's my home!' the boy said bitterly, 'we should be here, fighting.'

'Do as your father says,' the knight returned harshly, frowning at the outburst. Self-control was the first and foremost lesson the Sarmatians learned, and fourteen year old Gilly was at the age when some of them had left home. The boy stammered out an apology and left. Tristan shook his head wondering if it had ever occurred to Bors that his own children might balk at leaving their island home. Apparently the knights weren't the only ones facing conflicting choices. Seeing no one else in the stable, the knight relaxed and turned his attention once more to the mare - talking to her often cleared his mind. He needed a clear mind now.

'Be glad you didn't have to smell me,' he continued his monologue, thinking back to his time on the trail with Eagan and his little band of saboteurs intent on delaying the Saxon march. Now he could appreciate the humor of that situation, and feel grateful he had not had any more of the disturbing visions he had experienced on the trail.

'Senna did mention something about cow dung,' Eric said cheerfully, walking in with an armload of saddlebags. Gault followed, limping but looking much improved. He had taken a bolt to the thigh during the recent journey North. 'Want to tell us? I didn't think so.'

'When is Arthur expecting us?' Tristan asked calmly, as usual ignoring the silliness and suppressing irritation at being interrupted again.

'At the usual dinner hour,' replied the older of the other two, leaning against a pillar, 'in fact we came looking for you. He asked us all to attend. There is important announcement, it seems.'

'We can guess what that is,' Eric said grunting as he loaded the saddlebags onto benches along the wall and checked sundry straps and buckles. It was standard practice to keep several kits of travel supplies in the stable so that the knights could ride out at short notice. The kits were replenished right away at return, a job that usually fell to the junior most. 'He means to stay and fight this Cerdic, not that Lancelot will be happy about it.'

'Neither should you be,' said his companion, rubbing his injured leg. Gault was a serious young man and given to worrying. 'It could mean a siege, and we practically invited them. Not that we can stand against … how many did you say they were, Tristan?'

'Many,' replied the scout vaguely, his eyes focused elsewhere. Seeing the two here had triggered a train of thought he was intent on following. Finally he felt as though pieces of the plan he had discussed with Senna were sorting themselves. 'Where are we meeting Arthur?'

'At Vanora's,' Eric replied.

'Where it's sure to be crowded, and gloomy,' added Gault. 'The fort gates are being kept open tonight. People want to see Arthur, talk to him. I don't like it.' Everyone felt uneasy in the presence of a frightened mob of strangers but Arthur had ordered the fort open. This was something Tristan didn't like either but lately the commander had been closeted with the Woads, listening to their counsel.

'You never like anything,' Eric told Gault, 'until there's a few mugs in you.'

'With a few mugs or without,' Gault replied in disgust, 'you're still an idiot. There'll be men looking to make trouble.'

'Arthur could use your help then,' Tristan interrupted their argument. Aside from the usual exasperation, he felt a restrained affection for Eric, the only one of the younger quartet who was comfortable with their quiet and deadly scout, even though the boy made him feel positively old at times. 'A cheerful story to divert the crowd, perhaps the one about Aquileia.' The Baltic knights had traveled the continent from near the shores of Black Sea to come to Britain, and the much-embellished stories told by Eric and Gault were wildly popular with the dinnertime crowd at Vanora's. Both of them brightened at the prospect of retelling their adventures to an appreciative audience.

'You actually listened?' Eric asked. Tristan was saved from having to admit to it by a warning gong going off somewhere on the Wall. Without a word, all three of them hurried out of the stable, Gault limping as fast as able, and went to the nearest watchtower. The gong was rarely sounded, and rarely ignored. The sentry - when he spotted serious danger - rang it to summon senior officers.

The rest of the Sarmatians were already up on the parapet, along with on duty sentries, jostling for a view. Rag tag refugees stood below in streets and courtyards, clustered and wide-eyed, straining ears in the sudden silence to hear what they could not see. Tristan's grin finally disappeared as a feeling of déjà vu swept over him: an army was pouring out of the forest to the North like a shadowy tide of malevolent insects, torchlight gleaming off helmets and breastplates. Somewhere among them moved a man – a ruthless and shrewd adversary – who had vowed to kill Arthur and thereby decapitate native resistance. Aiding him was another who had a network of spies in Badon. Columns of enemy slid past each other; the scout narrowed his eyes and considered them as he would abstract gaming pieces.

A flurry of salutes announced the arrival of Arthur Castus. He ran up the steps, Guinivere at his heels, both of them looking disheveled. A detached part of Tristan's mind noted that he had been correct in guessing her choice. Without a word, Sarmatians moved back to let their commander have an unobstructed view of the Saxon army.

'My friends,' Arthur turned back to the waiting crowd - including his men at arms - to say, 'my journey with you must end here.' The scout had known as much already but the words were still jarring in their finality. To Lancelot they were like a thunderclap. The First Knight followed Arthur down the steps and across the courtyard, arguing angrily, and futilely. After Arthur left, the curly haired knight looked as though he would take out his anger on Guinevere until Tristan stopped him with a clap to the shoulder.

'Lancelot, let it go,' the scout said quietly. The other man was surprised enough to comply. He and the scout were not exactly friends. On the streets, members of the militia were shooing people away back to wherever they could find rest, or prepare for whatever was coming the next day. 'Walk with me to Vanora's.'