Ok this is it, my story, the big one! It's Lancelot's version of the events of the movie. It follows the basic plot line of the movie but I have added in a bunch of my own ideas. There are a lot of new scences and things that I wrote into my story that didn't happen in the movie. So that's it. Read, enjoy, review and I'll be happy. Thanks and remember that this is my firsttry at writing something good.

Chapter 1

As Lancelot sat atop that hill and watched the carriage approach, the carriage baring his long denied freedom, the hatred he had long felt for the Romans surged through him once more. The memory of the day he had been taken from his home came flooding back to him and he saw once again his father's solemn and painfully understanding face, as he had ridden away, and he heard the unbearable piercing cries of his mother as she wept and begged for him not to leave.

Her tears were shed to no avail.

The Romans had no heart for her. They showed no mercy to the pathetic and pitiable sobs of a heartbroken woman. They felt no kindness even for their closest allies, so why should they spare compassion for the people of a country who had so long fought against them. The inhabitants of Sarmatia were of no worth to Rome, but for a small, even diminutive, number of renowned knights, perhaps as many as one hundred on a good year. If it were not for this small price paid to the Roman Empire, the uncivilized pagan country would have been long before destroyed and reclaimed in the name of Rome.

As Lancelot had rode away from his home on that day, that dreary sunless day, his heart became cold and hardened. No longer did he love life or people as he once had. No longer could he feel the sun on his face or the wind in his dark curls, all was replaced with darkness and chill and a brutal foreboding of the long days to come.

Long ago, long before a time Lancelot either knew or remembered an oath was sworn on the closing of a great battle. The Sarmatian forces had been gravely defeated by the Romans. None were alive at the end of the war but a few legendary warriors. Their courage and valor was known to all Romans and it was said they were undefeatable, and brave beyond any of the fiercest knights known to man or legend. Seeing their value, the Romans decided to spare their lives on the sole account that they would join the Roman military and serve as knights. Though being as ruthless as they were, one lifetime of servitude was not a high enough price to spare the lives of such a foe. In addition to their own lives, it was ordered that the next generation of sons would also enlist into Roman service, and their sons as well, and the sons who followed, and all generations of Sarmatian Knights until the Roman Empire fell or was over taken. Seeing they had no choice, the Sarmatians swore an oath that day binding themselves and their sons to a grave fate, a fate which many after would have chosen second to death, a fate so cold that none who endure it wish it even upon their vilest foes. Lancelot was of that line of men and long he dreaded the day the accursed oath would find him. But it did. And as he rode from his home that bleak and hopeless day, he cursed his fathers of old.

Fifteen long years had passed since that unspeakable day and the time had come for him to be set free. The carriage he watched approach held within the Roman Bishop Jarmanius of Rome, who had come to deliver the discharge papers that would enable himself and his fellow knights to return home to their own country.

Upon their steeds standing beside Lancelot were the rest of the Sarmatian knights. Their number was only six by then, but on the day of their arrival they had been a much greater company of fifty-three. The outlandish and ridiculous demands lain upon them by the Romans far away from the harm and fear the knights faced daily, had claimed the lives of so many, and now only but a few knights, who were possibly even greater warriors than their forefathers, remained. Brave they were and strong. And their loyalty was only to each other and their commander. They were the only people Lancelot now trusted and loved. They were Tristan, who was keen eyed and eared and took delight in slaying and battle. Bors, who beyond all the others was bold. Dagonet, fearless and strong he was but had a heart that still remained true and loyal. Also there were Galahad and Gawain, valiant and fiercely they fought together and never losing a battle or letting a foe escape their wrath.

Their commander was Artorius or Arthur. Courageous he was beyond all others and his name was known to all. Heroic were the tales that were told of him and his legend knights of Sarmatia in his native Rome. He commanded the Roman outpost in Britain where the Sarmatian Knights were positioned. Joined as one they were by the binding fact that they were all under Roman command. Arthur was hardly above his knights in this matter and was as much under the power of the Bishops and Pope in his home as they. He was bound to the Roman outpost and bound to Roman orders until the long awaited day of freedom came. But unlike his knights, Arthur was of Christian beliefs, while the others were pagans, and believed not the ridiculous words Arthur spoke of his God. He believed in equality and peace more so than his knights, who knew the cruel ways of the world, and though he knew it not, more even than his fellow Romans. Though they did not agree with or understand Arthur as they did each other, they loved him as much as any knight loves his commander and pledged their allegiance only to him. Long did they fight together to protect the land form the vicious Saxons and dark Woads. He loved all his knights beyond any others for to him they were not just servants to the Roman Empire but his friends, whom, he had come to realize, he was devoted to far more than his own Romans.

Most of all, though, he loved Lancelot, for he was passionate and fierce, loyal only to those he loved, and loved only those loyal to him. He took no delight in slaying and great delight in women. He of all the knights was the most bitter and fierce and held the most hatred deep in his heart. He held it too deep almost and nothing could warm the frost it had instilled upon him. Seeing him smile was a rarity except if he was engaged in a fit of drunkenness or conceitedly mocking Bors or one of the other knights. Although more arrogant than any other man to walk the earth, and easily identified by the trade mark smirk constantly etched on his face, Lancelot would follow his commander and best friend into the gravest danger to the farthest ends of the earth. Loyalty was valued higher than gold by Lancelot and once you had won his he would give his life defending you. He and Arthur shared a friendship so strong and so faithful that no bond now exists that could compare to the devotion they had. Lancelot fought by Arthur's side, winning renowned all across the great isle of Britain. Together they were more feared then a host of Woad attackers. Arthur would have given his life for him and Lancelot would have done the same.

"There he is as promised," said Arthur as the Bishop's carriage drew nearer. "The Bishop Jarmanius, here to deliver your discharge papers."

"About time too," said Lancelot not heeding the hatred that had leaked from his heart into his voice. "Fifteen years of risking my life on this useless island is enough."

"Don't worry, Lancelot," said Galahad who was youngest of all the knights. "Soon we will be back in Sarmatia. And this nightmare will be over."

"Yeah," agreed Gawain, "and the first thing I'm going to do is find myself a beautiful young Sarmatian woman."

Bors laughed at this and said, "Beautiful woman. Don't you know why we left in the first place?"

All the knights laughed at this. Even Lancelot cracked a smile.

"So Lancelot what are your plans for when you get home?" asked Gawain.

"Well," smiled Lancelot, whom all had unanimously decided upon their first meeting that he was indeed the best looking of the company, "if this Sarmatian woman really is as beautiful as you say then I will have to come and see for myself that you are not just lying so we are to think better of you. And upon her first sight of me she will beg to run away with me and we will ride off together in to the sunset leaving you lonely and miserable until old age takes you." Though it was only the all too familiar sarcasm of his fellow knight, Gawain found that this was a very believable situation and vowed never to let his woman come in contact with the handsome knight who had all too much charm with women, a gift he had possessed since birth.

The knights laughed all around and Gawain muttered, "If I see you coming I'll kill you myself?"

"You will kill me?" smirked Lancelot. "My good friend, I believe you have forgotten which of us is the better knight. I would have slain you before you had even drawn your sword."

Gawain, knowing that his dear friend and fellow knight meant no word of which he had spoken, gave in and muttered quietly to himself, something that sounded awfully like, "...better knight. I'll show him," and fell victim the laughs that surrounded him.

Arthur, on Lancelot's left side, laughed along with the others but fell silent as he glimpsed something in the trees on their right side. He peered as far in as he could but when he saw nothing he guessed that it was merely an animal of some sort.

"What is it Arthur?" asked Lancelot, catching the concerned look on his face.

"Nothing," he replied. "I just thought I saw something."

"Well look at that!" called Dagonet pointing down toward the Bishop's carriage.

The Knights all glanced down into the small valley and saw that one of the Bishop's guards had fallen from his horse. An arrow stuck in his chest was a most obvious sign that he was slain.

"Woads," said Tristan. And no sooner had he said it then scores of men ran out of the trees and toward the Bishop and his guards. They were the Woads, as they were called by the people who dwelt at Hadrian's Wall. They were painted blue and had many crude symbols drawn across their chests. Each one bore a bow and a long sharp spear and many had long blades drawn and ready to kill. These men were the heathen folk of Merlin, known by many as they dark wizard of the woods. They dwelt north of the great wall since the Romans had claimed the Southern half of the isle of Britain. They were angry about being driven from their land and had waged many a fierce battle against the knights in fruitless attempts to reclaim their land of old.

"Come on, boys," called Bors. "Let's go save his ass. He can't give us our discharge papers if he's dead."

The knights rode forward, Arthur in the lead with Lancelot at his right hand side. Down the hill and over the grassy field to the Bishop's carriage they rode and all the way Bors gave a mighty call as he always did when riding into battle.

There were two dozen Woads battling with the small escort of guards the Bishop had brought along. They were a small number and no match for Arthur and the legendry knights of Sarmatia. They gave great shrieking cries as they saw the knights approach. Many rushed forward to form feeble ranks but with great swings of their swords, the knights swept through them and left the ground littered with their lifeless bodies and spilt blood.

Lancelot dismounted from his horse and drawing one of his long gleaming twin blades form its sheath on his back, glanced around him to determine which of the savages to slay first. He only stood a moment before two of the Woads rushed at him. The first ran forward with a blade held high. He gave a wild shriek as he made to bring it down on top of Lancelot's head but before his stroke feel, Lancelot had pierced his chest with a swift swing of his own sword. The second Woad was armed with a long spear. He thrust it forward but Lancelot ducked the blow and with a mighty swing of his blade slashed the back of his foe with a loud sickening crack.

He glanced around and saw his fellow knights at work slaying the rest of the Woads. The memories of past battles with the savage enemies were fresh in his mind. They were ruthless in battle and fought viciously. Lancelot found himself recalling one of the first times he had done battle with these men. He carried a vivid token from that battle, a long scar that stretched the length of his back, the result of a deadly wound at the hand of a Woad. Arthur had nursed him back to health refusing to let his dear friend fall past the boundaries of life so early in his own. And from that day forth, Lancelot, so young then, cursed those heathen men and fought valiantly to rid the world of their numbers, and swore to let no Woad to get passed his blades untouched.

He ran forward with new valor and threw down two more of the savages. Many of them began to retreat back into the trees but several of the boldest ones stayed behind and refused to flee. One particularly large Woad remained and stood searching for a worthy opponent. His eyes glimpsed Lancelot and he rushed forward, a great cry escaping his lips as he made to do battle with the greatest knight of Arthur.

He made to slash Lancelot but their blades met and the sound of metal upon metal rang loudly in their ears. Lancelot battled with this Woad, who even he had to admit possessed skill. They matched each other swing for swing until Lancelot, tiring of their battle, for he compared it with child's play, dealt him with a mighty blow across his forearm. The Woad shrieked in agony and just as Lancelot was about to deal a final blow, a second Woad came up behind him and with a great slash brought his own blade down upon Lancelot's shoulder.

Lancelot felt the blade rip through his thick armor as if it were but a slice of bread and cut painfully through his soft flesh. He felt warm blood gush from the wound and gave a stiff cry in pain as he felt his balance leave him, fell back, and landed on the shoulder that had been slashed. He cried out again as his shoulder hit the ground and the force of the blow sent his sword flying from his grasp. His blood began to stain the grass and a searing pain shot through his body. But no matter how much pain the pompous knight felt it did not compare to the blow his pride had suffered.

The Woad, now standing over him a gleam of victory in his eye, laughed cruelly. His bow pointed at Lancelot's chest was loaded with an arrow aimed directly for his heart. The Woad cackled ever louder as Lancelot made a feeble attempt to retrieve his sword which was now lying three feet away from his outstretched hand.

Knowing that he had no chance of escape, a hasty plan began to form in Lancelot's head.

The Woad's grip loosened on the bow string and he said in a low cruel voice, "Goodbye Great Knight, slayer of my people."

But Lancelot was ready. He reached back with his unhurt arm and retrieved his second gleaming sword. Almost as trademark as his devious grin were Lancelot's twin blades, with which he fought fiercely and ruthlessly. He wretched the blade out from beneath himself and with a great upward stab aimed his sword for the heart of his enemy.

He struck the Woad in the stomach and blood began to flow steadily from the place in which it entered. Lancelot wrenched his blade free, now stained with the blood of his foe and watched as he fell to the ground. The Woad landed with a thud and Lancelot noticed that from his back stuck an arrow exact in likeness to those which he used. He realized someone had slain the Woad before his stroke fell, but who it was Lancelot did not know.

He looked up expecting to see Arthur or one of the other Sarmatians but instead he saw a different knight. He was tall and hooded so Lancelot could not see his face. The knight held out his hand to Lancelot, but with a scowl he refused the offer and got to his feet by himself, for his pride had been damaged enough that day.

His shoulder throbbed painfully as he went to retrieve his stray sword but when he glanced at the place it had been seconds before, he saw it had gone. Lancelot scanned the grounds around him and at last his gaze fell upon the knight who had slain the Woad. His sword was clutched in the knight's hand.

Lancelot walked back to where the knight stood and made to grab his sword but stopped as at last his eyes beheld the face of his rescuer. His own expression fell into a look of disbelief for surely it could not be. Lancelot beheld not a knight of stern face but a fair maiden clad as a knight.

Catching the look on his face she threw back her hood and let her long dark hair fall out. She wore an expression of amusement as Lancelot looked at her, a bewildered expression across his own face. She was no ordinary woman, thought. Her beauty passed that of any maiden he had ever beheld whether in Britain, Rome, or Sarmatia. And she was tall and proud. She held herself as if she were a knight of great ranking. Though she had great beauty, she seemed also to possess a silent fierceness about her, something cold and sad, like a new sword that gleamed gold, silver, and magnificent, yet it was hard and cold and stained with the blood of those it had slain.

From her slender waist hung a long sheath encrusted with gold and jewels. And in her hand she held a great gleaming sword that fitted the sheath. Across her back was slung a bow and a quiver full of arrows. She was clad just like he in armor that shined silver with the crest of Sarmatia across her breast and beneath a coat of mail. Also she wore a cloak draped across her shoulders that was white, but not just any white, it was the purest white Lancelot had ever seen, unstained by dirt or grime and untouched by any who were unworthy of touching such a beautiful thing.

"Your sword." Her voice sounded more beautiful than the birds that sang in the early morning but it also held a note that was cold and angry and sad.

Lancelot looked down and realized she was holding his blade out to him. Coming back to himself he took hold of it and said, "Who are you?"

"I am Maelien," she replied, a hint of authority present in her voice.

"And why, Maelien, are you here?" questioned Lancelot his usual tone of arrogance present.

"I have traveled here with the Bishop Jarmanius of Rome," she answered with a tone to match his. "And he has come in search of Arthur and his knights of Sarmatia. I see he has found you."

"If you are from Rome," said Lancelot, "why then do you bare the Sarmatian crest on your armor?"

"I am Sarmatian," she replied in a dignified sort of way. "I am a knight."

"You're a knight?" smirked Lancelot. He looked around him and saw that the battle was now ended. All of the Woads had either fled or were lying upon the field. His fellow knights were walking around making sure those they had wounded were dead and Arthur was conversing with the Bishop beside his carriage. He and the Bishop looked up as Lancelot looked in their direction and they walked over to where he stood.

"Lancelot," Arthur said, "your shoulder. Have you been injured?"

Lancelot looked upon his injured shoulder. There was a great wound there it was still spilling blood, staining the grass below a rich shade of crimson. The cut was deep and wide and all around it was tinged black. In the shock of seeing who his rescuer was Lancelot had forgotten about the blow. "It's nothing," Lancelot replied simply, fighting the urge to wince in pain. "The damn Woad caught me from behind."

"Lancelot," Arthur replied shaking his head at the arrogant knight, "I fear your pride will be the death of you."

"Maelien, I see you have arrived," said the Bishop turning his attention to her. "Do you have anything to report?"

"The Woads, did you call them, have made their way south and east after crossing the wall. I found their camp 2 miles west of here this morning. I arrived just after the battle began. I slew as many as I could," she replied the note of coolness back in her voice.

"Did you say she was Maelien?" questioned Arthur with a sudden look of confused comprehension. "Do you mean the great Sarmatian knight, who is feared throughout Rome? Who has won as much renowned as the greatest heroes of the greatest tales of old? Who every child in Rome knows the name of and whispers with great respect and authority? But I thought... I mean, I imagined you were... "

"Yes," answered Maelien, "It is me that you speak of, though you seem to hold me in greater respect than I deserve."

"You mean she really is a knight?" questioned Lancelot sharply.

"Yes," she replied again. "The oath our forefathers took of old stated that the eldest son of each generation of Sarmatian knights would be enlisted into the Roman military-"

"I think we are aware of the oath," cut in Lancelot.

She paused slightly and glanced coolly in his direction. "But my father had no sons. So I was taken in place of a son for the Romans ordered that the oath be fulfilled lest we wished instead for death. I was taken form my home and trained to fight...to kill. I became a knight. I have long fought in savage battles and been ordered to slay in the name of a country that is not my own. I have endured great perils with no reward. For fifteen long years I have been away from the land that I love and the home that I miss dearly. But now the oath has been fulfilled and my time spent...and maybe, I will again, be able to look upon the vast and beautiful hills of Sarmatia, the only land I call home." All the time she spoke it was with a great bitterness as cold as winter's first chill.

Lancelot looked at her and saw there was a great look of anger mingled with pain on her face. It was a look he knew well, for he wore it long. All the long days he traveled from his home in Sarmatia to the Roman out post in Britain, he had worn that sad look upon his own face, not speaking, not eating, only hating the Romans. A pain grew in him as he made that journey. It darkened his heart and filled him with anger. He became cold and hard. He could see no light or goodness in the world. And the first time Lancelot rode into battle, the first time he was ordered to kill, the anger that he had long felt erupted. He became violent in battle, slaying all in his way, becoming fierce and merciless. Now many years later he still held that pain close as if it were something he longed to be rid of but had lived so long with that he knew not what it was like to live without.

He looked upon Maelien and in her eyes he saw that she had fared the same. She had shared the same cold fate he had to endure. This somehow changed the way he saw her. Though only moments before he had looked upon her in disbelief and now he saw her with some new feeling, though he knew not what it was. Was it compassion or sympathy? No. He knew it could not be for she needed it not. Was it comprehension or understanding of the life she had led? Yes, to some point but it was more. Was it...love? No, it could not be. He could not love someone only by laying eyes on them. It had taken Arthur, even, years to win the love of Lancelot, but somehow this answer just seemed to fit, somehow he could not shake the though from his mind, though he knew it untrue. He tried to think of another answer to the question that plagued his heart but no other seemed to fit.

He looked around and saw that the other knights had gathered around to see who the new comer was. They were all wearing various looks of disbelief as they too stared at her. Lancelot did not blame them for she looked too beautiful and fair to be a knight. You had to look deeper past her exterior to see how brave and strong she was. She was a knight, a great and noble knight.

Beside Lancelot, Galahad stood, the fair knight's words running through his mind. The pain in her voice and eyes stabbed at his heart. He looked upon her. Her great beauty stunned his eyes and everything around her seemed blurred and nonexistent. She spoke not a word, but her voice sounded beautifully in his head. He could not lift his eyes from her face, though it was pained and angry. A feeling filled him that he had only felt before as a boy, young and running free in the home that she had spoken of. That home, that memory, also filled his mind. The dream that someday he would return burned fiercely in his heart, perhaps even more fiercely than it burned it the hearts of the other knights, for he was younger and the memories of his home were still as fresh in his mind as on the day he had left. Looking upon her face, so young yet so old, he was filled with the joy and happiness that he knew only home could bring him.

She drew also Lancelot's gaze again. Her face, indignant, was so full of wisdom and stories that she looked as if she had already walked the Earth for twice the span of a normal man. It was unlined and attractive, though, and Lancelot knew that she could be no older than Galahad, youngest of the knights, whose age was reduced from his own by four years. A cruel and premature knowledge of the world and its problems was a mark that her tales were true and Lancelot felt the unknown feeling grow in his heart.

"Yes," said the Bishop Jarmanius as he pulled his face into a smile that was quite visibly false. "For fifteen long years you have all been of great service to the Roman Empire. But now your time is nearly done." He smiled his horrible fake smile at all of them; their own faces now twisted into looks of great disgust. "Arthur," the Bishop continued, "I have assigned Maelien to your company for the little time they now have left in your command."

At this Arthur nodded and turned to Maelien and said, "It is a great honor to have a knight of such great renowned in my company. Even if it is only for a short while."

She nodded in return and with a look around at the knights surrounding her said, "No it is an honor for me to be part of such a company as this."

"Well, Arthur, Don't you think it best for us to make for Hadrian's Wall in case any of those savages return?" asked the Bishop.

"Yes," agreed Arthur. "Let us make for the Wall. Tristan, ride ahead and tell us what has become of the Woads and the road ahead."

Tristan nodded and rode swiftly off to the north. The rest of the knights mounted their horses and followed the Bishop's carriage across the field and onto the road that led to the city at Hadrian's Wall the great fortress of Britain where Arthur and his knights dwelt.

They rode a little behind the carriage as it rumbled along the worn and bumpy road.

"I don't like this. Why does he want to go back to go back to the wall," said Gawain, as he rode beside Galahad. "Why doesn't he just give us the papers and be done with it."

"It's a Roman thing," said Bors. "They can't wipe their ass without making a great ceremony out of it. You'll see."

"I don't know about that," said Maelien riding up along side Lancelot. "I think the Bishop has a scheme in mind as well. He had me come up here and join your company after fifteen years. Why he did not just free us separately I do not know, but I fear we will soon see his plan in plain."

As she spoke Lancelot looked upon her again. This time, though, her eyes caught his gaze. They were neither brown nor green but seemed to be caught somewhere in between. And they were deep, deep and full of knowledge and stories, as was her face. As Lancelot stared into them he felt as though they could pierce a hole through stone.

"I do not know what the Bishop has to say when we return to the Wall but I do not think he intends to do anything other than give you your release papers. But we cannot be sure," said Arthur. "For now let us just be happy that our time in Britain is nearly done and the freedom we long for is nearly upon us."

They rode northward as the sun began fall from the sky into the west. As it sank it cast a golden glow about the land and everything seemed peaceful and quiet, a deceiving look of the country of Britain. Tristan had returned and said that the fleeing Woads were heading north at great speed and had no plans of attack. The knights had pushed the thoughts of what the Bishop intended from their minds and were now talking joyfully about their home.

When Lancelot was sure that Maelien was deeply occupied in a conversation with Galahad, of which the young knight seemed greatly happy about, he rode up along side his commander. "Arthur," he said in a low voice so as not to be overheard, "You have heard tale of Maelien before. Why then if she is a great Sarmatian knight have you not spoken of her before now and why has she not joined our company sooner?"

Arthur scanned Lancelot as if to read his thoughts and replied, "I do not know. I have only heard brief tales of her deeds and bravery. Many Romans say her name with as much fear and respect as they do mine. They say she is a knight to challenge the great Arthur. She has earned great renowned in Rome and from the stories told she has slipped through the very fingers of death many times. I do not know but from what I have seen today she is more than worthy of being one of our company, for she is courageous and has greater valor than most men will ever possess in their entire lives. She is astonishingly skilled with a blade and bow and slays fiercely but compassionately. Perhaps she is seen as too great a knight to serve on a petty out post such as Britain or maybe it is the opposite and she is seen as just a defenseless woman, but many of great renowned hold her in great respect and say her name as if she is one of great worth. She is a knight though it may be hard to believe. She has earned that title and bares it proudly not unlike yourself, Lancelot. Can you not look at her and see who she is? She is but one of the great knights of Sarmatia, perhaps even greater than the rest. If you are unsure of this look into her eyes, for there her story lies.

Lancelot pondered this as he rode. Even Arthur, who was courageous and powerful beyond any knight, held her in great respect. He knew not why he cared so much about her, never before had he felt this connected and interested in any woman. He was notorious for his charm with woman but never did he want anything more than one night with them. But something about Maelien seemed to touch his heart and made him feel less angry and cold toward the harsh and bitter world. He could not help staring upon her fair face and wishing it was with he that she was conversing with.

But Lancelot was unable to wonder these feelings any longer for Tristan shouted, "The Wall lies ahead."

Ahead it stood darkly silhouetted against the hills beyond. Flags baring both the Roman and Sarmatian symbols waved in the wind and horns sounded in welcome as the knights approached. Long it was indeed, seventy three miles. From the eastern shore of Britain it stretched right across to the western shore. And it had been held long as a lasting defense against the enemies in the north. Never had it been breached while the Sarmatians had held it and the south of the isle remained safe within Roman control.

And there at the Wall there was a city. Not a large city but it was the main Roman settlement in Britain. Here was where Arthur and the knights dwelt. Mostly Romans dwelt there but there were a few Britains also. All around this city there were rich and fertile farmlands and most of the people lived quiet lives as farmers. Also, some Roman soldiers dwelt there to help defend the Wall if ever battle broke out. All the people in this city were under Arthur's rule as he was the commanding officer in charge of this Roman outpost.

As the knights and the Bishop neared the Wall the massive gates were pulled open to let them enter the city. They passed through the great gates and entered a large courtyard that led out onto the main streets of the city. There were many people waiting to greet both the Bishop and the knights and gathered around as they entered the yard. Many children waved as they dismounted from their horses.

As the Bishop stepped out of his carriage there were many cheers and shouts of welcome from the Romans but those who were of British or Sarmatian race fell silent and cheered not, but welcomed the knights, whom they loved dearly, home. When the shouts died down Arthur said to the Bishop, "My quarters have been made ready for you, as you are probably weary."

The Bishop nodded and replied, "Thank you Arthur. All this travel and fighting has tired me." And he left.

All around Lancelot his fellow knights were greeting friends and Bors was occupied with his many children and his lover Vanora. Many people beckoned to Lancelot but he turned and left the courtyard, with a last glance at Maelien, and made for his own quarters, for he had many things to ponder.