Hadrian's Wall spread East to West as far as the eye could see, great blocks of grey stone that held out the woads from the North and held in the Romans from the South. Bryanne's wagon was taken into the courtyard of the Sarmatian's quarters and left there as officials bristled at the sight of the woad girl.

"You cannot keep her here!" The official announced pompously.

"And who is to stop us?" Arthur asked, helping Dagonet lift Bryanne down from the wagon. She blinked in the bright sunlight, stretching her eyes upwards to see the sky above the walls. "She is a casualty, we have every right to keep her."

"She is a woad. A barbarian." He spluttered. Bryanne fixed him with a glare that would freeze the sun.

"Coming from a Roman." She spat furiously, and then cackled a laugh full of venom. The official blustered some more before Arthur dismissed him with a cutting remark and a wave of his sword.

"Put her in the spare room between Lancelot and myself." He instructed Dagonet. He nodded, and went to show Bryanne the way when she stopped and cried out in utter surprise.

"Desra! That's my horse!" A chestnut mare whinnied at the sound of her name and strained against the lead rope. The horse had been found in a paddock beside the village, and Arthur had immediately loved the strong legs, barrel chest and flowing limbs.

"She's yours?" He asked incredulously.

"Yes. I've had her since I was a child and she was a foal." Bryanne replied, darting over to the horse and throwing her arms around the red-gold neck. She turned to Arthur. "What were you planning to do with her?"

"Actually, I wanted to keep her." He said, still somewhat surprised that the spirited horse that had battled every Roman on the way back was a gentle as a dove under the seemingly calming hand of Bryanne.

"Well, since the owner is not dead, I don't think that will be happening." She answered him abruptly, mistrust gleaming in her eyes. Her sharp chin jutted out as she set her jaw.

"No one talks to Arthur like that." Hissed one of the men. He was still mounted on his horse, a hawk resting on one arm. His dark hair was braided in places and long over his eyes, and on each high-placed cheekbone he bore two black lines, and wore his beard long over his chin. His voice was quiet and calculating, speaking of wisdom and mystery and inner strength

"Easy, Tristan." Another answered, holding his horse by the reins. He also had dark hair, though short and curly, and a beard that jutted thickly from his chin and jaw line. This voice, in contrast to Tristan's, was calming and smooth – a voice like to that of a priests, or a man of peace. Bryanne recognised it as deceiving, noting the sword hanging at his side. "She would never understand respect."

"Oh no?" She curled her lip at him. "Or perhaps it's because I don't respect this murderer so blindly as yourself!"

"Galahad! Bryanne!" Arthur snapped. "Enough." He walked away, and Galahad fixed Bryanne was a fierce look that she returned equally.

Lancelot watched through the open door as she moved about the room, noting the cot beneath the arrow-slit window, and the oak table along one wall. Curtains hung from various corners of the room – some covering the doorway, but temporarily pulled back, and more hiding a tin bath that Bryanne discovered with great joy. There was a small hearth, providing a fire for heat as opposed to light, and a stool tucked underneath the table. Brackets on the wall carried yellow wax candles, and yet more stood in iron candlesticks on the table. Genna's basket had been put on a stand so that she lay at waist height. Bryanne approached her and looked fondly down at the face of her niece. Lancelot wondered if he had any nieces in Sarmatia. Swallowing back the homesickness that jabbed between his ribs, he rapped his knuckles on the doorpost and entered when Bryanne whirled round. She had already washed herself properly – they had only cleaned the dirt away from her wounds on the journey, and rebound her bandages, and had even managed to find a clean dress that fitted her. This was green, as the last one, but dark enough to match her eyes, which now looked at him so intently it made him want to squirm. Her hair was in a long braid down her back, but a few rebel strands fell about her face. It fell to her elbows in a wave of russet brown, laced with threads of chestnut and gold. Her skin was pale, and she had freckles across her nose, cheeks and shoulders. Her face was narrow, with a sharp, expressive chin, high cheekbones and a thin nose, with wide, full lips and a long, elegant neck. Around her right upper arm she wore a band of gold. Her whole body stood defensively, but it was shapely and strong, with narrow shoulders and only slightly wider hips and long, lithe legs that moved with such grace she looked almost feline. She raised a single eyebrow at his blatant appraisal.

"What is it you see, Sarmatian?" She asked, her voice soft but cut defensively. It gave him shivers to hear it. "A barbarian woad? An injured, shamed woman, starved, desperate?"

"No." He answered with a shrug, and moving his eyes to alight on the splash of yellow sunlight that fell in a long line across the brushed-clean floor. "I see a proud, strong woman." He allowed his eyes to dart back. "Whose defences would be better used elsewhere. I am not your enemy, Bryanne." She snorted, and turned back to Genna, who had woken and begun to murmur.

"I doubt that. You fight for the Romans, yes?"

"Yes, but –"

"Then that's all I need to know."

"No, it's not. I do not serve these Romans, they are as much my enemy as yours. I hate them with every waking breath, and more so in my dreams." He folded his arms across his chest, and she turned back to him, taking her time to study him closely.

He was tall and broad, built like a warrior, naturally. But his stance was smooth, and she guessed he could move with skill and grace. His broad, square hands were callused and bore the tales of many battles. His beard was cut more neatly than the others, a thin trail around his lips and across his chin and jaw. He had a strong jaw, square, like most of the shape of his body, that was set with stubbornness. He had a long, straight nose that some would label a 'Roman nose', but she would never say so – it was unique to him. His mouth was set in an expressionless line, but she had seen him smile and already knew the dimples set in his cheeks when he laughed, and tracings of lines at the curl of his lips. His eyes were deep, deep brown. Not chocolate, not coffee, something more intense than that, as deep as the roots of an ancient tree and as dark as a night shrouded in clouds. His hair was black and curled around his ears and high forehead. He wore his armour still, thought more decorative than useful, with a gold-inlaid breastplate and chain mail underneath with rolling shoulder-guards, his arms protected with more metal guards inlaid with gold, and pleats of tough leather covering a dark tunic and breeches to his knees, and his shins covered by boots underneath yet more metal-and-gold guards. Across his back were sheathed two blades, their hilts showing over his shoulders for easy reach.

She sighed, folding her arms in imitation of him.

"What is it you want with me, then? I am perfectly well-healed to go home." Lancelot hesitated. The ashen smell of fire still assailed his nostrils, because he had not yet washed him from his clothes and hair and skin.

"You don't have a home to go to." He said unsteadily, watching her reaction play itself out across her face. Confusion, disbelief, anguish, and then, finally, anger. She clenched her fists by her sides and shook with rage, her jaw tightly set.

"What have you done to my home?"

"The village was burned down when we left…" She tore past him, her feet flying over the stone paving. She knew where to go, Arthur was meeting more Roman officials in the hall, along with his knights. Lancelot had been making his way there when he had paused at her door. She burst through the doors into the room. It was bare save a pool of water in the middle of a circular table. Brackets spluttered with oily smoke from the gust of wind and she threw herself at Arthur, who was standing behind his stool, ready to sit. His green eyes registered surprise before her fist clouted his chin with such force it jerked his head backwards.

"Don't you dare touch him!" Roared a voice. Deeper than Dagonet, and stronger in its timbre, it came from nearby, and she felt two strong arms grab her by her waist and pin her against a very solid, very strong body. Massaging his jaw, Arthur looked at Bryanne, and then the man holding her.

"Let her go, Bors." He said quietly.

"But –"

"I said let her go." She was reluctantly released as one of the Romans started to protest.

"What is the meaning of this? It this the woad girl you killed Partius for?"

"You burnt down my home!" Bryanne screamed. Lancelot appeared behind her, looking slightly bemused at the sight of such a slight, slender and weakened woman standing defiantly at Arthur, who towered a head and shoulders above her.

"No, I didn't. The Roman legion did." He answered calmly, looking down at the woman he had rescued, and had yet repaid him by punching him with a very hard fist. He was surprised at her strength. She dived for him again, screaming profanities, but Bors locked his arms about her again as she stormed.

"You should have stopped them! You should have let me die there – better than to find I have no home and no family and no future but in the hands of these disgusting creatures." She spat at the feet of the Romans, and one raised his hand to slap her. Arthur held him back with a raised hand of his own. The Roman took a step backwards.

"Why are you protecting this girl?" He asked curiously, with a lacing of fury. Arthur had no answer to it, except that he had seen the desperation in her eyes as she had fought the four soldiers, the lack of fear in her eyes as she had awaited her fate and the passion and anguish when she had seen Genna his arms. The maternal protection she bore for someone else's child both baffled and fascinated him, and he felt he had to know more.

"Bors. I told you to let her go." He said, watching Bryanne as she shook herself free from the man's grasp and sneered at them.

"You disgust me." She hissed, and stormed from the room with such tremendous energy that it almost left them in breathless awe. Lancelot ached to follow her, but knew military matters were far more important.