Okay, hope you're all enjoying it!

This bit, as a warning, gets a little steamier, but not much.

And also, BIG disclaimer! Don't own any of this apart from my own characters. I nicked a few words from the script, but I don't own those. They belong to the big clever people that wrote the film. Right, so DON'T OWN IT!

Enjoy.

P.S. The triple dots and bold words show a seperation; I couldn't figure out how to put stupid asterisks in! (If anyone knows how to put them in and make them STAY, please let me know)


It was three days until the knights returned. They were dirty and wearied and disheartened. Bryanne heard them return from where she was grooming Desra in the stable. She didn't go to watch, but she listened for his voice, willing him to be there. When she heard his smooth timbre, she breathed a sigh of relief into Desra's mane, closing her eyes in thanks. Her horse snickered, and leaned her head over the stall door, watching for the knights and their horses.

"Jols. Take the horses, rub them down, they're hot." Arthur instructed. Jols was the squire-cum-soldier friend, with sandy brown hair and a pockmarked face from the pox. Years had taken its toll on his body, and his stomach stretched at his tunic, but he was still fit and fast, though he preferred caring for the horses as opposed to fighting.

"Jols." Bryanne's heart leapt at the sound of Lancelot's voice. "Solmyr was favouring his left foreleg, I'm worried he may have gone lame. I checked, but I can't see anything." Solmyr, Lancelot's black stallion, snorted at the sound of his name. He was a huge beast – at least sixteen hands, if not seventeen, with broad, flat muscles and huge hooves that made the ground shake.

"After I've rubbed him down, I'll walk him and take a look myself." Jols offered. "Though he looks in fine shape to me." From her angle in the stable, Bryanne saw Jols rub Solmyr's muzzle affectionately. Lancelot laughed.

"He always does. Thank you, Jols." Lancelot briefly appeared in her eye line, to pat Solmyr's neck, before leaving the stables. He didn't know she was there. And for that, in some ways, she was glad. She finished grooming Desra, tidied away the brushes, and headed back into the living quarters. It was a warm day, and strands of her hair stuck to her temples. She impatiently brushed them away with back of her hand, only serving to wipe a smudge of dust across her cheek. She heard a familiar laugh and looked up. Gawain stood ahead of her, arms folded, leaning against the wall.

"Well, you are a mess!" he quipped, approaching her. Bryanne blushed.

"I was grooming Desra."

"I can tell." He reached up and used his thumb to brush away the dust. Bryanne bit her lip but made no move to step away.

"Gawain! Arthur wants us…" Lancelot trailed away as he caught sight of the pair. "In the hall." He finished quietly, blinking to shield his confusion.

"Coming." Gawain answered, winking audaciously at Bryanne, who covered her mouth with a hand to hide her smile. The two knights disappeared into the hall, and Bryanne quickened her pace to get to her room.

Damn him! Lancelot cursed silently at Gawain, railing at the knight for being such a flirt. He was sure it was innocent… but it almost hadn't looked that way. He viciously discarded the doubt, deciding that why should he mind so much about what Bryanne did with herself. She couldn't return his feelings. Maybe she trusted him now, but he was still her enemy. She had said it time and time again. The words had never sounded so bitter now as they did before. Arthur dismissed them, and Lancelot rose abruptly, stalking from the room coldly. Oh, he hated how he loved her. Well, he'd certainly find out from her how she felt about Gawain. And why not? He had a right to know… Gawain was his promiscuous friend, after all.

"Can I come in?" He asked, through the curtains, which had been (unusually) drawn.

"Oh! I… just a moment." Replied a flustered voice. Lancelot frowned, watching the shadowy silhouette dart about, and then blushed as he saw her lift a tunic from the stool and pull it over her head. She came over, using her hands to flick her braid out from the collar of the tunic before pulling aside the curtain. "Come in." She smiled welcomingly. "I was just… washing." She indicated the tub, which was still full of warm water. Her legs were bare, and he noticed the trickle of water down one calf. He cleared his throat and turned away so as not to torture himself.

"I just came to say hello." He said. "Three days away and all…" He waved his hand as if it finished his sentence.

"Of course." There was silence, as Bryanne seated herself on the edge of her bed and indicated he should sit on the stool. He obeyed.

"You know…" Her eyes met his, was that expectation in them? "If you were attracted to Gawain, you only have to say and I could help –"

"Attracted to Gawain!" There was hilarity in her voice. "Why would you think that?"

"In the hall…"

"I had dirt on my face. I had been grooming Desra." Her voice had grown quiet, and he studiously avoided her gaze.

"Oh. I see." Bryanne pursed her lips.

"Is that all you think of me?"

"What?" He was genuinely stunned at the question. Her eyes were like chips of stone. She was angry.

"Is that all you think of me?" She repeated. "A worthless wench. A loose woad girl!"

"No!" He protested. She stood abruptly. Lancelot followed suit, hands opened in an expression of innocence.

"I think you should leave." She said, pointing to the door, trying to swallow her anger and hurt, but it showed in the shake of her hands.

"Anne, I'm not going to leave." He said, somewhat sharply, a patronising, stern tone in his voice. Her eyes bore holes into his skull, just as they had in the wagon nearly six weeks ago.

"Then perhaps I should leave." She snatched the green dress she wore from the end of the cot. She strode across to Genna's basket, where the baby was sleeping quite happily.

"And where would you go?" Her laugh was like a shower of ice.

"Nowhere, Lancelot. Just as I've been going to nowhere all my life." She was collecting Genna's belongings together. The garment she had sewn, the wooden horse, a scrap of muslin from Arabia that Arthur had given her as a peace token four days after arriving.

"Don't be ridiculous, Anne." Lancelot protested, trying to take the things from her hands and place them down again. She jerked them away, her breath making her chest heave in anger. "You can't go."

"And why not?"

"Because I won't let you!" He roared suddenly, waking Genna who began to cry at the disturbance. Glaring at him, Bryanne put down her belongings and picked up her niece, hushing her gently. She looked at the Sarmatian who was standing stiffly, watching, waiting.

"You can't stop me, Lancelot." She whispered as Genna's cries dimmed to disgruntled burbling.

"And I won't." He said as the baby began to drift back to sleep. He waited until Bryanne had put Genna down again before he continued. "I don't want you to go, Anne. I couldn't bear it."

"And what could you do to make me stay? Take what you said back? I'd still be a woad. I'd still be the enemy."

"Stop. Saying. That!" He huffed. "You're not my enemy. You never were." Bryanne studied his face closely. It was as open and as honest as she had ever seen it. "I won't take the words back, because I never said them. At least, not how you imagined. I was just jealous…" He hesitated.

"Jealous of what?" She asked, perplexed. He shrugged, looking away.

"Please don't go." He begged. Bryanne smiled, and blinked heavily.

"I won't go."

"You won't?" She shook her head. She spread her arms wide. The room was dim, and they could hear Genna breathing softly as she slept.

"As you said, where would I go? I've nowhere but here." He laughed shortly, relief in his voice.

"You honestly scared me." She smiled, some of the hurt evaporating as quickly as it had come. Her temper always got the better of her, it seemed. "You know, I could kiss you, I'm so relieved." He added. And so he did. He grasped her head in his hands, and kissed her. Momentary surprise was overcome when she felt his mouth pressed against hers. She closed her eyes, melted herself into him, exulting in the feel of his tongue against her lips, his hands holding her close...

"Tell me about the bargain the Sarmatians made with the Romans." She begged as they lay against each other in her bed. His fingers caressed her skin beneath her tunic, and she could feel his leather trousers against her bared thigh, his gentle breath against her neck. He laughed quietly, the jump in his chest knocking against her back.

"What do you want to know?"

"Everything. You always talk about your home, and your family and your village. And you talk about your battles here, with Arthur and the knights. But you never talk about the bargain. The one that brought you here." She twisted her head around so she could see half his face over her shoulder. A single brown eye, a raised eyebrow, and a single dimple in his cheek as he smiled ironically. She twisted in his arms to face him, curled her hands into his belt about his waist and nuzzling her face into the crook of his neck, where she could hear his heart beating and the blood pulsing just under the surface of his skin. Slowly, he began.

"By three hundred AD, the Roman empire extended from Arabia to Briton. But they wanted more – more land, more peoples loyal and subservient to Rome. But no people so important as the powerful Sarmatians to the East.

"Thousands died on that field, and when the smoke cleared on the fourth day, the only Sarmatian soldiers left alive were the members of the decimated but legendary cavalry. The Romans, impressed by their bravery and horsemanship, spared their lives. In exchange, these warriors were incorporated into the Roman military." He paused, and Bryanne waited, her eyes closed, listening to the smooth, rolling voice relive his country.

"Better they had died that day." He voice was deeper, sombre. "For the second part of the bargain they struck, indebted not only themselves, but also their sons and their sons and so on, to serve the empire as knights." He took a deep breath, his chest rising and falling. "I was such a son. It was the year four hundred and fifty-two AD, when I was twelve, when the day came. I saw the Romans coming to the village, more Sarmatian boys following on horses. My mother wept, and my father told me the story he always told me – how fallen warriors come back as great horses, and how my horse would know what is to become of me, and protect me. I've held that story close to me, as my comfort. But no more comfort than comes from this." He reached into a pocket of his overcoat and pulled out a small carving, hung on a thong of tough, worn leather. Holding it between her fingers, Bryanne saw it was a delicately carved wolf. "My sister gave it to me. It's my talisman. My promise to return home someday." Bryanne kissed his neck softly, feeling his life throbbing through him.

"You'll return home." She whispered. Lancelot leant down and kissed the top of her head.

"It's a vow I made to myself as I rode away with those Romans. I could hear the war-cry come from my village behind me, and one day, I shall ride back to the same cry." He put his talisman back into his pocket, and closed his arms tightly around Bryanne's waist. "How long shall we be gone?" He whispered into the darkness. "Fifteen years." He answered himself, the memory he coveted in his mind was rarely brought out, to be touched and turned over to be seen from every angle, as a beggar might touch a priceless jewel with the same awe. "Fifteen years."...

When Bryanne woke in the morning, Lancelot was gone. The empty space where he had slept was already cold. Genna was murmuring to herself, waiting for her aunt to rise and feed her. The woad took the baby to the kitchen, her thoughts far elsewhere – in a land made of endless grass and sky. She smiled, and hummed a song to Genna as the infant sucked at her finger. As she was making her way back to her room, there was a great commotion. She went out to the courtyard to see Bors yelling and running about, the other knights equally as excited and bemused.

"What's happened?" Bryanne asked a passed servant.

"The mistress Lorella gave birth just a few minutes past." The servant replied, before disappearing into the warren of hallways of the servant's household. A smile gradually forced itself onto her lips, and she laughed as she approached Bors.

"Bors! I heard the news!" The giant man swept her up in a hug, carefully not to crush Genna, calling all the time.

"I know! I know! A son! Another bastard boy!" With that, he whooped with laughter and shot away. Bryanne laughed and shook her head, only to look up and catch Lancelot's eye. She looked away quickly, confused by the medley of feelings it caused in her.

She made her way to Lorella's chambers and nervously knocked on the door. A midwife opened it, looking stern.

"The mistress should not be disturbed –"

"Bryanne! Bryanne. Let her in, Alana, for goodness' sake." Came Lorella, her voice breathless. The piercing wail of a newborn baby rose up, and Bryanne entered the room to heat and bloody sheets and a sweaty, exhausted Lorella. "Even after nine, it doesn't get any easier." The older woman confided, moving herself into a more upright position. "Genna!" She cooed, reaching out for the baby. Bryanne gave her up and watched as Lorella babbled inanely at her.

"Congratulations." She eventually said. Lorella looked up, the sparky smile of a mother on her face.

"Thank you." She suddenly frowned and leant forward. "Here," she said in a conspiratol whisper, "Me and Bors was thinking. I've got enough milk. How about I feed Genna, eh? I mean, you could do with one less burden, and I certainly don't mind." Bryanne was rather taken aback.

"Well, I… I…"

"No need to answer right away." She said, leaning back. "An idea, is all." Bryanne smiled, and thanked her, agreeing that it would certainly be easier on her, as she had no milk herself. Lorella waved it off. "Like I said, I don't mind a dot. This one's a sweetheart!" She jiggled Genna, who chuckled and clapped her hands.