A/N: I am a horrible, horrible person who deserves to tarred and feathered for being absent for so long. I have absolutely no excuse but having been too busy with college, work, sports and such to sit down and work on this story. Please feel free to flame me for my disgusting lack of updates. I won't mind...

I hope you will enjoy reading this chapter anyway. It is a chapter that finally brings a few answers. I'd really appreciate it if you let me know what you think of it.

Love, Witch of Eastwick


Mission

After tossing and turning in her uncomfortable rented bed – she hadn't wanted to intrude on Bors and Vanora's last night together – Isabelle decided to give up on sleep and slipped out from under the rough blankets, putting on her borrowed dress.

Last night she and Tristan had spent a little more time together in calm silence, taking comfort in each other's presence, before he'd kissed her one more time and walked away. He'd taken every bit of calmness he'd given her with him, leaving her in a nervous, nauseating frenzy.

She'd secured a room for herself near the Tavern, not wanting to go to Vanora's, and still being too angry with Gawain to go to him. Now, in the early hours just before sunrise, she cursed herself for her stubbornness and hurriedly tied the many toggles of her dress. She pulled a piece of bread she'd snatched from the Tavern last night out of her pocket, and began tearing it into parts small enough to eat, silently leaving the room and descending the stairs.

She headed towards the main building, to Gawain's room, but when she knocked, there was no answer. Pushing the door ajar, she peeked around it. "Gawain?"

The room was empty. A quick scan learned that his armour and weapons were gone. Isabelle swore. "Please don't be gone already," she whispered, already having turned around to run to the stables. She flew outside. The sun was coming up, casting a pale gold winter light over the fort. She had heard no shouted orders and the gates were still barred – it must mean that the knights were still in the fort.

Expertly, she weaved her way through the throng of people going about their morning business, but skidded to an abrupt halt when she had neared the small side entrance to the stables. From the other side a small group of people walked to the stables as well. The bishop.

In his wake followed a number of guards. But it was not the richly clad bishop or his heavily armed guards that made her blink in confusion, years of ingrained suspicion kicking in and telling her to slink between other onlookers, making herself inconspicuous. It was the much more simply clad man behind the bishop that had caught her attention, setting off every possible alarm bell in her head. But for the life of her, she could not understand why.

There was nothing about him that would warrant imminent danger. His clothing was simple, but made of fine cloth. He had a scribe's hands, long-fingered and soft. He'd clearly not wielded a weapon or tool in his life. His hair was black, and neatly trimmed. He was a cleric and nothing more.

Pure instinct, however, prevented her from moving. She watched them enter the stables, two guards remaining at the entrance. She could not go in.

"Damn it," she hissed. She turned around, heading towards the larger doors of the stables, but found that they were guarded as well. She could do nothing but wait until the knights exited, hoping that they would not leave immediately.

Fate must have been punishing her for her stubbornness last night, because shortly after the knights filed out of the stables, already mounted and following Arthur at a firm trot.

"Come back, Gawain," she said softly, willing him to look her way. He did, and Isabelle tried to put everything she wanted to say in her eyes. Gawain's face was grim, tight lines around his mouth, but they softened when he saw her.

"Come back," she repeated.

He turned his head to the front, the set lines of his face back in place, and followed his commander out of the gates.


It was raining. Of course it was raining. It always rained. Gawain focused on the pure, unadulterated annoyance the rain caused him, slowly but surely soaking his clothes, dribbling into the neckline of his cloak, and lashing his face viciously.

His irritation with the weather helped him keep feelings of dread and anxiousness deep inside, where they could not influence him. These woods made his skin crawl. So many places for the Woads to hide, as they had done seven years ago. Mist swirled around the hooves of their mounts, and any light that managed to peek through the heavy rain clouds, was stopped almost entirely by the thick, dark green foliage.

The tension was wearing out all of them, as they rode hard and fast. Tristan's uncanny sense of direction allowed them to advance into the north rapidly. They rode without rest, stopping only to briefly consult their map, Arthur and Tristan hunched over the parchment, speaking in curt, low tones, while the others stood guard around them, skin tingling, hairs on end. The bishop's uninvited secretary maintained a deathly silence, even more tense than the knights. To their surprise he was able to keep up with their merciless pace, not complaining once.

It was on the third day that they were attacked. The path was very small, forcing them to make their way slowly and carefully, one at a time, to avoid their mounts stumbling. An injury to one of the horses would mean certain death in this place. For its rider.

Tristan was the first to notice the unnatural rustling of the leaves in the underbrush to their left. "Woads," he said quietly. "They're tracking us."

Gawain's head shot up. The rustling of the leaves was too loud, even with the frosty wind playing between the trees. It was coming from both the left and the right side of the path now. This was it then, he thought. Merlin was coming for them.

The tension in the group mounted even further. The horses, so attuned to their masters, became skittish. The sense of a noose closing tighter and tighter around their necks had the knights looking around them edgily, searching for blue between the green leaves. When the attack finally came, it was almost a relief. They could finally look at their enemy. But it was obvious that enemy had been expecting them. Despite Arthur's frantic attempts to lead them out of the trap, their escape routes were cut off one by one.

Galahad was nearly impaled on hidden stakes in the ground. Gawain, right behind him, stared wide-eyed at the contraption. The resignation with which he had faced this mission, and his probable death during it, vaporised. He did not want to die in these infested woods, mere days away from freedom.

"This way!" Arthur shouted.

Gawain turned away from the stakes and followed his commander, ducking arrows along the way. It might not matter what he wanted, though, they were running out of options fast.

The natives had blocked every path. The one they were riding along currently filled suddenly with Woads. Arthur was forced to turn back in the face of their spears, heading straight back to the closed off paths. Woads with bows were waiting for them. Sensing there was no other option but stay and fight, he drew his sword. The knights followed him. Galahad and Tristan held their bows at the ready.

The Woads, though ready for a massacre, did nothing. The arrows, which would have ended the knights' lives in a moment, were not loosed.

Gawain's nerves were running thin. He wanted it to be over with. "What are you waiting for?" he called out.

Then he noticed it. The melancholy sound of a horn, most definitely not Roman. The Woads did not move, but did not shoot either. The horn called again.

Arthur looked the Woad leader defiantly in the eye. It was clear to everyone what that horn was signalling. The Woad leader was clearly reluctant to let his captives alive, however. So close, so close they were to achieving their goal. Gawain swallowed, not even daring to hope they would get a reprieve.

But the horn called again. Whoever was behind it had enough authority to make the Woad leader adhere to his wishes. With a final glare, the leader lowered his bow and retreated. Within seconds the whole group had simply vanished into the woods.

Gawain's hair stood on end. It stayed that way the rest of the day, even after Arthur's composed, but still slightly incredulous remark, "Merlin doesn't want us dead." The one thing he had never expected, had just happened.

The world had shifted.


Isabelle had been racking her brain for days. But she could not understand why the scrawny cleric had given her cause for such alarm, such suspicion.

All of her time was occupied with work. Berwyn claimed her during the day, and Vanora, concerned that Isabelle might lapse back into worrying, had her working nights in the Tavern.

Though her hands were busy, her mind had ample opportunity for wandering. Vanora had already warned her twice that the frown between her brows might become permanent.

Isabelle had chuckled faintly, but the frown had not eased.

It was during her second turn of washing the dishes on the third night the knights were away, that it suddenly clicked in her mind. "Oh God," she breathed, a mug slipping from her grasp.

The pieces had finally come together.


It had already been a week since Arthur and his men had left, and the waiting was wearing Isabelle down. The combination of having to speak to Arthur immediately, but not knowing if he would even come back, was grating on her last nerves. Not to mention the constant sweeping sensation in her stomach every time she thought of Gawain and Tristan riding through Woad territory, towards a Saxon invasion.

At noon on the seventh day Isabelle heard a call from the guards that a caravan was approaching from the north side of the Wall. Ignoring his protests, she ran from Berwyn's to the main square, where she could watch from the opened gateway.

Two Roman cavalrymen whooshed past her, galloping on the road that led to the massive gate to the north. "It's Artorius," she heard a guard say to his companion.

Gathering up her skirts, Isabelle began to run towards the caravan, determined to halt Arthur before he reached the fort. He had to be warned of the danger. The knights rode up front with Arthur, followed by wagons and stumbling peasants. Isabelle spared no time to take notice of this strange assembly of people.

"Arthur!" she called out. "Arthur!"

"Isabelle?" he frowned. "What are you doing here?"

"Arthur," she panted. "We must speak. I know who's responsible for all the murders."

Arthur's face twisted in revulsion. "So do I."

"What?" she asked, astounded, but Arthur did not halt his horse, and cantered past her.

Suddenly she found an outstretched arm in front of her. Looking up, she saw it was Gawain. Grabbing his hand, she was hauled atop his horse. Gawain seated her in front of him and used his arm to keep her tightly against his chest. "You made it back," she breathed. "Are you all right?"

Gawain didn't answer; he just pressed his lips to her ear. His arm around her was so tight she could hardly breathe, let alone move. Moving her head, she could see Galahad and Tristan, easing the tight coil in her insides a bit, but her questions and demand to loosen his hold, were bluntly ignored by Gawain, which kicked up her anxiousness again.

Finally, when they were inside the fort, Gawain let go of her waist and helped her slide down from the horse, after which he followed his commander into the inner court, towards the waiting bishop. Isabelle found Vanora watching the caravan with a deep frown. "Where is Dag?" she asked the younger woman. "Did you see him?"

Isabelle shook her head, but at the same time, remembering Gawain's odd behaviour, it was as if the ground disappeared beneath her feet. She closed her eyes, clutching Vanora's arm.

"Oh, no," Vanora whispered panicky. "Oh, no no no."

Isabelle opened her eyes, locking on to the caravan, where Jols was just passing them on foot, leading a horse with a body draped over it, covered with a cloak. A single hand swung lifelessly beneath it, skin already bluish grey.

Vanora swayed on her feet, groaning like a wounded animal. Isabelle grabbed her around the waist, hoisting her up and pulling her into an embrace, partly to comfort Vanora, but also to keep herself on her feet.

"Come on," Isabelle choked, forcing the words past the lump in her throat. "Let's get you home."

Vanora was still making that terrible, soft, keening sound when Isabelle led her into her home. Not knowing what to do, she sat the distraught woman on her bed and just remained by her side, so scared by Vanora's behaviour that her limbs were shaking, trying to hold her own grief in.

She could not think, could not allow herself to think about what had happened, because she knew she would descend into a state resembling Vanora. She didn't know how long she'd been there, when she heard heavy footfalls nearing the little house.

"Vanora?" a broken voice croaked.

"In here," Isabelle called unsteadily.

"Bors?" Vanora whispered. The moment her lover appeared in the doorway, she stumbled to her feet and hurried towards him. Bors wrapped her in his arms, hiding his contorted face in her hair.

Isabelle silently left them to their grief and walked outside into the cold. It was as if her head was filled with fog, thick and impenetrable, to help her keep herself from thinking about what had happened.

She was trembling all over by the time she reached the stables. Jols was there, taking care of the knights' horses, but she ignored him, walking past him to the stable where she'd sought refuge before.

Kay's stallion nudged her belly with a velvet nose, earning himself a kiss pressed between his eyes. "Kolya," she whispered.

She seated herself in the straw, leaning against the wall, staring at Kolya's right flank, going over it in her mind again and again. How could this have happened? It wasn't supposed to be this way. Dagonet had already been free – he should have already been free. He had served his fifteen years, he'd earned his freedom. The injustice burned like bile in her throat.

"Hello, there, you old brute," a soft, rumbling voice spoke above her.

Isabelle lifted her head. Kolya allowed Gawain to stroke his head. "Been keeping her safe again?" Gawain murmured. "Aye, no one can get past you, can't they?"

He looked down at her. "Are you coming? You've been here for hours."

"Hours?" she repeated, surprised. Her voice broke and she cleared her throat.

"Aye."

Isabelle stood slowly, her joints protesting after having sat in the same position for so long. Kolya snorted and pushed against her shoulder. She smiled faintly and leaned against the warhorse for a moment, rubbing her nose against his shiny coat.

Gawain opened the door for her and she walked out, seeing Jols lead Dagonet's horse out of the stable. Her breath caught in her throat. "Is it time already?"

"Aye," Gawain answered. "Here, I brought your cloak." He draped the worn, burgundy garment around her. His hands lingered on her shoulders.

Isabelle stood frozen for a moment, pain constricting her chest, before she turned around and wrapped her arms around his waist. "He saved my life a dozen times," she whispered. "He was always just… there."

Isabelle felt wobbly, but it had nothing to do with her legs. First Kay, now Dagonet. They'd been rocks to her, steady ground. Granted, Kay had been a lot more outspoken, but they both had had that same unmovable, reassuring quality.

To have that taken away was nothing short of frightening.

Gawain had no words of comfort for her, and perhaps this was the most frightening of all. Isabelle disentangled herself from him, taking in his taut, white face. "Come on," she said, grasping his hand and leading him out of the stables. He seemed to regain himself as they walked out of the fort to the graveyard. Jols was already waiting with Dagonet's mount, as were Arthur and the knights, Vanora and the children, and two women and boys Isabelle had never seen before. Tristan was missing.

Isabelle stopped at the small mound that was Kay's grave and kneeled there, while Gawain took his place amongst his brothers. They waited. More villagers gathered around, as well as people with unfamiliar faces. These must be people the knights had brought back from the north, Isabelle thought.

Tristan finally arrived, walking up to his brothers with a handsomely made wooden chest. Bors began closing the grave with fresh earth, soon joined by others. After they had finished the mound, Vanora placed a small bowl on top of it, lighting the oil inside it.

Tristan opened the box he was still holding for Bors, who placed a scroll of parchment in it with a pained face as well as a few other gifts. One by one the knights placed their parting gifts in the box, Gawain last, after which Tristan closed it and gave it to him.

Gawain placed it on top of the mound, murmuring his goodbye.

The gathered people slowly began to disperse. Gawain walked to Isabelle, helping her to her feet and leading her away. She looked back to see Bors slump next to Dagonet's grave, while Arthur strode over to another grave, an unfamiliar woman trailing behind him.

"Who's that?" Isabelle asked.

"Guinevere, a Woad held captive by the Honorius family," Gawain answered. He shook his head. "Strange woman. Latched herself onto Arthur immediately. Keeps bothering him. As if she needs something from him."

Isabelle turned around again to look at the Woad woman, who was talking fierily to Arthur.

"But she helped us fend of the Saxons," Gawain continued. He hissed as if in pain. "Dagonet saved us all."

Isabelle intertwined her fingers with his. "Will you tell me what happened?"

As they slowly made their way back to the fort, Gawain began to recall their mission.


They hadn't been back long, when Jols came to find Isabelle. "Arthur wants to talk to you in the Hall," he told her.

Isabelle nodded and let go of Gawain's hand. "What for?" he inquired.

"It's about Maurus and the murders," she said. "I'll tell you later."

She left Gawain on the bench in the empty Tavern and walked to the main building. Her breath escaped her with a long sigh. She was relieved that Gawain had come to her, to offer comfort as well as seek it. But the implications of it were too much for Isabelle to ponder on, her heart too full with the loss of Dagonet.

"Arthur," she breathed. "You look…"

"Horrible," Arthur finished. "Yes, I know."

A bandage was wrapped around his neck and his face was pale. The lines in his face seemed to be deeper than usual and there were bags under his eyes. What had struck Isabelle the most, however, was the sense of defeat that hung around him.

"What's going on, Arthur?" she asked carefully.

"Have a seat." He waved tiredly at his round table. "You said you knew who was responsible for the murders. I am sure I know too, but there are a few pieces missing. Maybe we can put everything together. How did you find out?"

Isabelle seated herself automatically in Kay's old seat, tracing the carvings on the table for a moment. Ignoring the stab of pain she was accustomed to, she said," It was a number of things actually. I've been putting a few things together myself.

"We thought at first that it was only you someone was after, didn't we?" Isabelle began.

Arthur nodded. "Yes, until Junius of Pons Aelius told me that his commander Gaius Avitus had been murdered by an assassin too."

"Aye, by Kallias," Isabelle agreed. "Who then came for me, because I'd betrayed Maurus."

"Junius and the commanders of the other forts told us that more soldiers had been found dead, which was when I began to suspect that these murders may have been connected, all trails leading to Maurus."

"Pity our little trip to the south didn't tell us much," Isabelle scoffed.

"Maybe not, but our visit to the Dux in Eboracum did," Arthur replied slowly. "When we saw him, he had already been informed of the murders. We told him what we knew about Maurus, and instead of being thanked for the information, we were reprimanded for leaving our post."

"Aye, we've spoken about that," Isabelle nodded. "We thought he might have known more about what was going on, but that he was overruled."

Arthur grimaced. "I should have known back then, but I never would have believed…"

"What, Arthur?"

"The Dux is the highest power in Britannia," Arthur sighed. "An overruling order, an order not to intervene, could only have come from Rome."

"But why, though?" Isabelle wondered. "I still don't understand why."

"I believe I can answer that. But tell me how you found out."

"Well, we didn't find out anything else for a long time," Isabelle continued. "But when I left with Andrivete, I heard her and Servilia Claudius speak about Cornelius Claudius, Servilia's late husband."

Arthur sat up straight. This he had not heard before.

"I recognized the name. Maurus had ordered Amaranthe to poison him."

"What? But how does that relate to –"

"I know, I know," Isabelle hurried to say. "I couldn't possibly have imagined that murder to be related to us at the time I overheard Maurus and Amaranthe. But that's not all Servilia and Andrivete spoke about.

"Andrivete used to be Julius Septimus's mistress, right?"

"Yes, I was trained by Septimus after my father died," Arthur answered. "When he retired, I took over his post here and he went to Rome."

"With Andrivete," Isabelle added. "She had her own residence there, and apparently she played host to Septimus and some of his friends, one of them being Cornelius Claudius."

"Septimus and Claudius were friends?" Arthur frowned.

"Well, I'm not sure how close they were, but at the very least they shared a common goal. I don't know what it was – Andrivete did not elaborate on it, but it was dangerous enough for Servilia to become extremely upset when she found out that Andrivete knew about it.

"Most of the members of the group that gathered at Andrivete's residence, were picked off one by one, all dying in suspicious circumstances," Isabelle continued. "It spooked Cornelius Claudius and he fled Rome, coming to Britannia, where he had inherited an estate. He was murdered during a visit to Eboracum. That was a few months before I was sent to you."

Comprehension was dawning on Arthur's face. "I see. What about Julius Septimus?"

"Arthur," Isabelle said quietly. "Andrivete said he was poisoned in Rome. It's why she fled to Thracia and later to Londinium."

Shock and pain marred Arthur's countenance. He gritted his teeth involuntarily. "I knew of some of this. Andrivete told me that she had become involved with a group that wanted to reform the Church in Rome."

Isabelle's jaw dropped. "That's what that group was about? Reforming the Church?" She whistled. "That would be dangerous enough, I suppose."

"I would never have thought that it was," Arthur said through clenched teeth. "But I've had to reconsider a lot of things lately."

Isabelle frowned, not understanding.

"Andrivete spoke to me a few months back," Arthur said. "She told me that she had enemies in Rome and that she had left for Britannia because of them. I offered her a place to stay here."

"Well, you weren't far away enough," Isabelle replied. "She said that she had been forced to leave Londinium, because her enemies were closing in. It was the same in Eboracum, and now even this fort. She left it, she said, because they were coming here.

"I didn't understand who she was speaking about, but I had connected the deaths of Julius Septimus and Cornelius Claudius with the order for your death," Isabelle said. "I came back here as soon as I could to warn you. But I became confused when I got here, when Vanora told me it was only a bishop that was coming here. I didn't understand how he could be a threat."

Arthur gave a mirthless laugh.

"And then I saw the bishop's scribe," she frowned. "It didn't click at first – so stupid of me, I had remembered Cornelius Claudius in the same way. I'd seen that scribe before."

"He'd visited Maurus's estate," Arthur finished for her.

"Aye," she nodded, confused. "How did you know?"

"I'll tell you something about Bishop Germanius," Arthur replied harshly. "He used to be in the military. Stationed in Britannia. He was a friend of my father's. As was my father's second-in-command, Julius Septimus. And a man called Pelagius.

Pelagius was a man of the cloth, but he was respected throughout much of the military, because of his views. Gaius Avitus, of Pons Aelius, was a friend of him as well."

"A lot of this Pelagius's friends have ended up dead, haven't they?" Isabelle asked tentatively.

"Pelagius was largely responsible for my education," Arthur continued, as if uninterrupted. "His views on God and the Church and mankind were somewhat unorthodox, but they were sensible."

It was Isabelle turn to have comprehension dawn on her.

"Germanius had left the military in the mean time and had turned to the Church as well. Pelagius was happy to remain in his current position, but Germanius rose to power quickly and left for Rome.

"After my father died, Pelagius continued my education, while Septimus trained me to be an officer. When I was twelve, Pelagius was invited to teach in Rome. He left."

"And you followed in your father's footsteps," Isabelle concluded.

"A few years later, yes," Arthur said.

"And now Julius Septimus, Gaius Avitus, and Cornelius Claudius are all dead," Isabelle murmured. "And you are supposed to be dead." She looked him sharply in the eye. "Where is Pelagius now?"

"A few days ago I was told he had been excommunicated and killed a year ago."

Isabelle nodded, the pieces of the tale having come together. "He was part of the group that wanted to reform the Church."

"He was the leader of that group."

"Who killed him?"

"Germanius and his followers did," Arthur answered, his face a hard mask. "Pelagius's teachings condemned their practices."

"And Germanius spent the last year making sure every last bit of Pelagius's influence was rooted out," Isabelle spoke grimly.

"From his old friend's son to every last soldier who followed his teachings," Arthur added bitterly.