A/N: No, I haven't died... Well, I almost died of embarrassment when I failed an exam I was sure I would pass. And I mean really failed. Painful ordeal for my pride...

But, there's always August! On to the resit. But first a new chapter... Really? Yeah, really... Don't let the shock kill you :P I hope you all still remember what the story is about and feel free to vent your feelings about my atrocious lack of updates. I am deeply ashamed of myself.

And as always a huge thank you to all my reviewers - BornWithAFever, maroonraspberry, Mandamirra10, Domlando Blonaghan, LANCELOTTRISTANBABY, Randomisation, LegolasIsMine, Priestess of the Myrmidon -who make writing such an addicting thing to do (with the occasional time lapse...). And yay to the new reviewers: Perrault, Raging Raven, and LaydeeBear, and double yay to Josje, the first fellow Dutch girl I met at fanfiction! I'm very glad you enjoy my story :)

Good luck to anybody who still has exams! If not, enjoy your holiday!


Smouldering

The barberry proved to be enough to fight off the looming infection and Gawain assured everyone he was fit enough to ride, taking offence from the doubtful looks he was given.

Arthur and Junius rode up front, constantly in deep conversation about their explanation to the Dux in Eboracum. Right behind them, Lancelot and Amarante had started a cold war, yet they kept riding in each other's vicinity to be able to exchange scathing remarks.

And still it was hot and humid, which did nothing to improve everyone's already short temper. Bors's bald head shone with sweat in the sun and even Dagonet's quiet and calm disposition didn't mask his discomfort. To everybody's shock even Tristan could be heard heaving sighs every now and then.

To pass time Isabelle envisioned large, cool pools under the shadow of trees, bubbling water and fresh, cold water falls and large quantities of Celia's oils. Gawain would laugh himself into a fit if he knew she was actually longing for Celia's fussing now.

He was riding next to her. She heard him puffing and muttering things about decent Sarmatian seasons and bloody Britannia. He glowered at her when she sniggered, his hair like everybody else's sticking to his forehead and temples.

"This weather won't hold out long," he told her confidently. "We'll be soaking in rain in no time again."

"If you say so," Isabelle muttered with her eyes on the painfully bright blue sky.

Fortunately, the travellers could move much faster now they were back on the road. From somewhere south of Petuaria to the shallow waters near Drax, they'd had to cross fields and forests. Now they were heading north-east over the small road leading from Drax, which would cross the main road to Eboracum in a little while. Arthur had estimated they would reach the city tomorrow in the early afternoon.

"How much further?" Oona whined from her place behind Isabelle.

"Not much," Gawain answered. "But to the Wall it's another eighty miles."

She groaned and grumbled something in her native tongue.

"My thoughts exactly," Isabelle chuckled. She had told the knights where Oona was from, an Hibernian settlement on the western coast, which had been raided by Roman soldiers and its inhabitants sold. That was almost two years ago, when Oona had been twenty-one.

"How long today?" Oona asked.

Gawain looked at the sky. "Not too long. We can probably ride for another five miles before the sun sets."

He was right. Shortly after his estimation Arthur called out to Tristan and Dinadan to ride ahead and find a place to set up camp.

"Preferably near some water!" Lancelot added, wiping his brow.

Tristan rolled his eyes and spurred his horse into a gallop, followed by Dinadan, who winked at those who lagged behind as if saying he would make sure they would be near water.

"He's been acting a bit odd, hasn't he, lately?" Lancelot asked Bors, nodding at Tristan's retreating back.

"More so than usual, ye mean?" Bors replied dryly. They chuckled.

"Just leave him be," Dagonet interjected. "He'll snap out of it."

"Why? Has he said anything to you?" Lancelot asked.

"No, not much," Dagonet denied, leaving out the fact that this didn't mean he didn't know what was going on.

"Well, if he refuses to say anything, it seems to me Tris ain't acting odd at all," Bors snorted.

Lancelot burst out laughing, a rich, deep sound, which made Amarante look behind her. It earned her a sneer from the dark-haired knight. She flushed angrily and whipped her head back, staring straight in front of her.


At sunset Tristan and Dinadan came into view, cantering along the road towards the group.

"There's a good spot about a mile ahead, away from the road," Dinadan told the commanders. "Next to a pond," he added.

Several moans of relief could be heard. Eagerly they followed the two scouts to their appointed camp.

At the sight of the small path leading to the pond, Isabelle groaned, "Thank you, Dinadan. I am forever grateful."

"Tristan found it actually," Dinadan admitted fairly, pointing his thumb at the man next to him.

"Oh." She looked him reluctantly in the eye. "My thanks to you then." She could barely wring it from her throat.

Tristan shrugged and walked off. Anger flared up in Isabelle's eyes for a moment.

Dinadan's eyebrows raised, almost disappearing under his mop of light brown curls. "Everything all right?"

"Sure. Perfectly fine," she answered and turned on her heels, stalking to her tethered horse. She rummaged trough her saddle bags in search of the soap she knew she still had. Armed with a comb and the soap she found she walked to the pond, gesturing at Oona to come along. They were followed by Amarante and the only other slave woman who had come north with them, a woman in her late thirties.

"But…" Oona objected, pointing at the open spot between the trees that revealed the camp and the men walking around, "...they see us."

Isabelle shrugged. "Just keep your shift on. They won't bother us." She pulled off her tunic and boots and slid out of her breeches, keeping on her long, loose shirt. With a satisfied sigh she plunged headfirst into the water.

When she came up for air, she saw Amarante was busily untying her dress. Oona still looked doubtful, as did the other slave woman.

"It's delicious," Isabelle coaxed them.

Amarante's green dress fell to the floor. She lifted her chemise up to her knees and carefully stepped into the water. Giving a tiny shudder of pleasure, she suddenly turned around, spread her arms and let herself drop backwards into the water.

"Heaven," she gasped after her head had broken through the water.

After a last anxious look at the camp Oona discarded her dress and ran into the pond. "Dilys, come on!"

"Good Lord," the older woman whimpered. "I have not undressed in the nearness of a man for ten years."

"Don't worry," Isabelle called out. "They're at least twenty paces away. I shall defend your honour if they dare come this way."

Dilys smiled, revealing the absence of a few essential teeth, but she had a friendly face. "Oh, very well." She tossed her dress aside and hurried into the water.


The knights glanced at the pond every now and then, from where gales of laughter and splashing came.

"I wish they would hurry up," Lancelot grumbled. "I want to take a swim as well."

"I wish they would shut up," Seraphe added. "They can be heard a mile away."

"Let them," Arthur said. "They've been under a lot of tension. Besides, we're so close to the city, we won't come across any trouble."

"That still leaves the problem of them not hurrying up," Lancelot said stubbornly. He stood and walked over to the path to the pond. "Be quick leaving that pond or I will come and fetch you!" he shouted.

Several shrieks answered him.

"Stop leering!"

"Go away!"

"Patience is a virtue!"

Lancelot snorted loudly at that last comment. "Isabelle, by now you should know I am not a virtuous man."

"I have faith in you!" was her ardent reply.

"I am touched. Now get out of that pond!"

"Go away then!"

With an exasperated sigh Lancelot strolled back to the camp. A little while later the four women returned, without having bothered to dry themselves off. They had just put on their dresses over their wet shifts and Isabelle's tunic hung loose over her shirt. She held her boots in her hand, padding barefoot towards Gawain, who was leaning against a tree, his legs stretched in front of him.

"You're dripping," he commented, opening one eye.

"How astute of you." She wrung out her hair right over his head, letting trickles of water fall on his face.

Sputtering indignantly, Gawain sat up straight. He jerked on her tunic to make her stumble and pulled her into his lap. "Hmm, very nice," he said, burying his nose in her wet hair.

"Whatever you like, Gawain," she snorted, but leaned against him anyway.

"Finally!" they heard Lancelot exclaim, who immediately proceeded to head towards the pond, dropping pieces of clothing along the way.

"I don't need to see your white arse, Lance!" Bors roared.

"Aye!" Lancelot shouted back. "Unlike Vanora!"

Bors glared furiously at his brother-in-arms, who indeed had no qualms stripping down to his discussed body part, before he dove into the water. Amarante and Oona turned their backs on the pond, a slight pink tinge to their cheeks.

Gawain nodded at the two women and whispered near Isabelle's ear, "I wonder if you'll blush when I take a bath?"

Suppressing the give-away shiver that ran through her, Isabelle smirked, patting his leather-clad thigh. "Blush? Why would I? Nothing I haven't seen before under there."

"Really?" Gawain mumbled, not taking his mouth away from her neck. Her eyes fluttered shut for a moment.

"Aye," she breathed.

"You wouldn't mind helping me bathe then?" he inquired. "After all, I am gravely wounded."

"I'd be too afraid to cause you discomfort," she replied. "Better let Dagonet help you. He knows what to do with your grave wounds."

"Very sharp," Gawain chuckled and pushed her off him. "At least help me get my armour off."

They got to their feet and Isabelle helped him take off his upper clothing. As Gawain dropped his tunic on the ground, he brought his lips close to her ear one more time. "Wouldn't do much good anyway, you helping me bathe here. We'd be in full view."

Blood rushed to her cheeks at an alarming speed. Gawain grinned and strode to the pond, where he took off his boots. Isabelle told herself she was not going to look, she wasn't, she simply wouldn't –

Swift as lightning she sat down and pretended to be extremely busy with her boots, her face flaming as flashes of a taut thigh and a sharp hipbone refused to leave her mind. She grabbed her comb and set to untangling her hair.

One by one the men wandered off to the pond and refreshed themselves. When Gawain returned, Isabelle found her blush had not quite faded yet. He picked his tunic up from the ground to put it on.

"You should leave it, so the cuts can dry," she said to hide her reaction.

"Or maybe you just like to see him half-naked!" Bors suggested loudly and cheerfully.

"Don't you think I wouldn't have asked him to take off his breeches if I wanted that?" she retorted.

"Well, only because you ask so nicely," Gawain shrugged. His hands moved to the laces that held the leather around his hips.

"Sit down, you!" she huffed. The other men roared with laughter.

Only when the uproarious mood and the comments had died down, Isabelle allowed herself to look at Gawain again. "It's still quite red," she said, her eyes sliding over the gashes.

"The stitches are irritating my skin," Gawain said, prodding a finger into his ribs. "I'll have Dag take them out. It's been a week now."

"I'll do it," Oona offered.

Gawain eyed her warily, his look clearly saying he thought she was much too eager with needles and now knives too. "I suppose, but maybe I should check with Dag first."

Dag said the stitches could be removed and handed Oona a small dagger, receiving a rather affronted look from Gawain. "Do you really think this is a good idea?" he asked.

Dagonet shrugged. "She is eager to learn."

"I am eager to have my limbs intact, thanks very much," Gawain replied.

"Oh, hush," Oona snorted. "I'm sure I can do this."

Gawain groaned. "That sounds like you've never done it before."

The Hibernian woman flushed. "Well, once."

"That's it!" Gawain decided and took the dagger from her. "Dag, you do it or I'll leave the stitches until they rot."

"Empty threat," Isabelle remarked.

Dag clearly had had enough and pushed Gawain on his back, grabbing the dagger and handling it with expertise. Within moments the stitches had been cut from Gawain's side and chest.

He fingered the cut on Gawain's forearm and frowned. "I'd rather leave them in for a few more days. The skin is stretched tight here. I don't want the wound to break open again."

"Thanks, Dag."

After the issue of the stitches was settled, the camp quieted down. Everyone was exhausted from the hot day and soon after their meal, they laid themselves on their cloaks or bedrolls to get some sleep.


Lancelot was woken by Gawain for his shift. Just because Arthur didn't expect trouble, didn't mean he wasn't on his guard. Lancelot rubbed his eyes and sat up, reaching for a skin filled with water to wake him thoroughly.

"No problems," Gawain assured him.

"G'night."

"Night."

He watched the blonde knight run a hand through Isabelle's dark locks. Half-awake, she mumbled something and reached out to him. Gawain grabbed her hand and murmured something reassuring back, while he lay down next to her.

With a smile Lancelot looked around him to let his eyes adjust. With this type of warmth there was no need for a fire and it certainly helped to see in the darkness. Keeping his eyes unfocussed he scanned the tree line, knowing it would make him see movement faster.

There was not a sound to be heard though. His eyes skipped back to the sleeping figures around him when one of them shifted and tossed their cloak off them. Heaving a sleepy sigh Amarante sat up straight.

Lancelot rolled his eyes at the heavens. Just his luck.

"Oh," she said with obvious distaste when she saw who was on guard.

"Good evening to you too," he replied sarcastically.

She huffed, but didn't answer, smoothening her dress over her legs.

He prodded with a stick into the almost died embers of the cooking fire. Not even a tiny spark flew from them. He felt an unreasonable irritation take over, annoyed by her continued silence.

"You are completely wrong about me," he hissed.

Amarante's head shot up, immediately taking the bait. "So you wouldn't place your friends' and your own interests over that of a stranger?" she retorted. "Because that is all that I said."

"You're twisting my words."

"I am merely stating how it is. You just can't deal with it."

"You're a vile woman and you don't know the slightest thing about me."

"If you hate me so much, Lancelot, why do you seek my company?"

Lancelot ground his teeth. "I do not seek your company! You're the one not staying out of my way."

Amarante opened her mouth in indignation. "I have no idea what you're talking about. You're always in my way!"

"I will not resort to childish arguments."

"Why do you find it so important to tell me that I am wrong about you?" she asked shrewdly.

"Why do you have the need to tell me that you understand me?" he rejoined.

"I don't! I don't care!"

"Good!"

"Fine!"

"I'm glad we've sorted that out."

"I'm going back to sleep."

"You do that."

"Must you always have the final word?"

"Aye."

With a frustrated growl Amarante fell back onto her bedding and turned her back on Lancelot.