Desra snickered as Lancelot brought in Solmyr. The stallion's coat was drenched in rain and rose in fingers of steam as they entered the warmth of the stables. Bryanne's head appeared over the stable door, her hair ruffled, and a piece of straw tucked into the braid. Lancelot laughed as he put Solmyr in his stable and approached her.

"Well, well, well." He smirked. "You are a mess!" She pushed his chest lightly as he kissed her.

"You're wet." She groaned, wiping the rain from her cheeks. Laughing, Lancelot shook his head, sending sprays of water in every direction. Shrieking, Bryanne darted backwards, and Desra snorted in dismay – she'd just been groomed dry. "You beast!" He shrugged, beginning to walk away.

"Never complain about being wet, then." This was followed by an 'oomph' of surprise as he was knocked to the floor; Bryanne had tackled him into a stack of hay. Crowing with obvious victory, she straddled his waist, pinning him down so he couldn't move. He struggled until he got his upper body upright and grabbed her waist, trapping her against him. She yelped as the cold water soaked through her tunic and breeches. Cackling wildly, Lancelot kissed her, and felt her struggles melt away. He tasted her tongue eagerly, smelling the scent of cooked apples and wood smoke from her hair.

"Ach!" Cried a disgusted voice. They looked up to see Gawain at the door to the stables, hands held up as to ward them away. "Not in the stables, Lancelot!" Bryanne blushed heavily, laughing as they detangled themselves and she rose, straightening her tunic and plucking hay from her hair and clothes and boots. Lancelot picked himself up, brushing himself down. Bryanne smirked, and pulled the hay out of his hair.

"Blame her." Lancelot retorted, nodding his head towards the woman. Gawain headed for his horse's stall, picking up a bucket with brushes in.

"Those sort of displays are to be kept to the bedroom."

"Don't preach what you don't practice, Gawain." Bryanne quipped. The Sarmatian blushed to the roots of his sandy-brown hair. "I saw you in the alley last night with the girl from the tavern."

"I… it…" He spluttered, knowing he'd lost the argument. Lancelot laughed at the floundering knight.

"Don't worry, Gawain." He said, wagging a finger and heading for the door and the sheet of rain. "She has that effect on me too."

"I… she… keep her under control Lancelot!" Gawain managed to announce, spreading a pleading hand towards the grinning woad.

"I try. But, I think it is she that has me under control." Lancelot shouted back, disappearing into the curtain of silvery rain. Gawain growled mockingly and glared at her. She blew him a kiss before following Lancelot, bowing her head and running as fast as she could across the courtyard to the awning over the door to the quarters. Lancelot was waiting, and pulled her to him, as they panted with laughter, their clothes sticking to them. "I got you something." From a pocket, he lifted a silver pendant out. Set into it was a tourmaline, and it sparkled, capturing the light from the candles in the brackets on the wall. Bryanne gasped, and took the pendant, hanging it over her neck.

"I'll never take it off."

"You'd better not! It cost me everything." She laughed at him, slapping his chest wetly. He looked at her, his gaze softening. Water dripped from her braid and nose and chin, and ran down the back of her neck, under her tunic, and trickled into her boots, freezing her feet. Her teeth began to chatter with the cold and the knight chortled at the bedraggled sight. "Let's get you inside and warm." He said, taking her into the quarters to his room.

She was shivering so uncontrollably that her lips had gone blue and pink dots had appeared in her cheeks and on her nose. Lancelot prodded the fire until it crackled into life again, and then proceeded to peel her tunic off and lay it close to the flames to dry. She kicked off her boots, scattering mud, straw, hay and water across the tiles. He helped her out of her breeches, and she crawled under the sheets of his cot as she watched him undress himself. He used his hands to scrub some of the water from his hair and scampered over to the bed, his teeth clattering too. They curled together as they watched steam rise from their damp clothes.

"I… hate… British autumns…" Lancelot stuttered, and Bryanne chuckled.

"It will get better."

"Better hope so." He grumbled. "This isn't very uplifting." She snuggled closer, murmuring:

"I'm sure I can find something to uplift you."

"I'm sure you can." He answered, feeling the familiar response and allowing himself to be swept away by the sensations she created in him…

The hot wine felt good as it slid down Bryanne's throat, and she finished it quickly, holding out her cup for more. Galahad laughed and poured her another. She grinned wickedly, before gulping more wine.

"Thirsty?" Tristan enquired lightly.

"Parched." She replied, wiping an escaped trickle from her chin. The quiet man shook his head in amusement. "I see you are not drinking." He looked at her oddly. "Nothing wrong with that…" She added.

"Pour me some wine, and I will drink." He said, and she obliged. "Though, I had decided not to – so as not to embarrass some people." He nudged Galahad, who choked on his drink. There was mirth around the table that died out as conversation flowed separately. Dagonet and Bors, brothers in everything but blood, Galahad and Gawain, Lancelot and Arthur and Bryanne (who refrained from saying much). Tristan sat quietly – the strangely accepted outcast. He watched Bryanne from under his long mane of dark hair, his black eyes never leaving her face. He dug the tip of his dagger into the table and twisted, carving out a thin reel of wood shavings. Lancelot rose to get another jug of wine – Lorella being in bed with her children. Tristan rose too, and followed him, standing silently next to the Sarmatian until Lancelot addressed him.

"What is it, Tristan?"

"Bryanne."

"Why? What's wrong with her?" Lancelot's voice was sharp with suspicion as he looked at the woad. Nothing seemed to be wrong – she was in an animated discussion with Gawain, her head tilted just to one side.

"Nothing. But she has something on her mind."

"So?" Lancelot poured himself some of the wine before lifting the jug to take it back to the table.

"It's important." Tristan stated, and watched his friend return, before following him a little while after. Bryanne was preoccupied. She had some idea… some plan… something dramatic brewing.

Damn Tristan and his comments! The day had been going so well and now all Lancelot could think about was what Bryanne could be thinking about. He could think of nothing she had said earlier that day. He went to sleep that night knowing his dreams would be haunted. And when he woke, to a frantic pounding on the door, he felt a chill to his bones that was not created by the wintry morning outside. The rain had subsided, it seemed, but Jols could not have cared less.

"LANCELOT!" He roared. Bryanne groaned and rolled over, pulling more covers around herself.

"Open that bloody door, Lancelot." She mumbled. He stood and yanked on some breeches before opening the door. Jols looked frenzied.

"Arthur wants you. Get dressed in your armour – you're going out."

"Out where?" But Jols had already gone. Swearing, Lancelot stumbled about the room, throwing on a tunic, before dressing himself in his boots, shin-plates, and his chain-mail undercoat. He cursed under his breath as his fingers fumbled at the buckles of his breastplate.

"Here." Came a gentle voice, and female hands covered his own. He sighed, and drooped his shoulders as Bryanne buckled his breastplate on and strapped on his shoulder-guards and wrist-guards. She attached his cloak with a final flourish over his sword sheaths. Lifting the swords from where they rested on the wall, she handed them carefully, hilt first, to him. As he tucked them in their cases over his shoulders, he caught her eye. It seemed desperate. "When you get back… we need to talk." She told him gravely. He nodded, and kissed her forehead. The half-sigh, half-whimper he heard from her made him feel like tearing his armour all back off again. She wore nothing but her pendant.

"When I get back, I will ravish you like never before." He teased, tucking a hair behind her ear and leaving. Solmyr was already saddled, and he mounted quickly, gathering the reins in his hands. "Where to this time, Arthur?" His commander didn't smile.

"South."

"South?" Galahad queried, looking confused. "Directly South?"

"As the hawk flies." Arthur replied, and from above their heads, they heard the clear screech of Tristan's hawk.

"Why? Woads wouldn't have…"

"They're not woads from North of the Wall." Arthur answered, kicking his horse and cantering from the barracks. The journey was a grave one. The air had cleared to a crisp, frosty snap that would have been decadent if the past day's rains hadn't washed the dyes from the leaves, leaving only dull browns and greys. The mud had frozen hard, and the horse's shod hooves clattered over the iced-over puddles and slid on the churned mud.

The village was deserted. Silence lay like a pall over the still huts. No fire burned, no voice called. The hoof beats fell on dead ears, ominous in the quiet. And indeed, there were only dead ears to hear their approach. Corpses lay where they fell. Some had been pecked at by crows, others lay in dark pools of their own blood – frozen. Even the stench of death had been frozen by the frost. Arthur raised a hand, calling a halt.

"Tristan." He beckoned the scout. "Do you hear anything?"

"No." The man replied.

"No… bird calls?"

"None." It was abruptly apparent why the silence seemed so creepy. Not even the whisper of a bird called from the trees. No flutter of wings against branches. Nothing.

"Maybe we're too late." Bors suggested, looking down at one of the bodies. Tristan shook his head, and Arthur voiced the doubt.

"No. They're still here." Lancelot glanced darkly towards the treetops, expecting to see the silhouettes of woad archers perched there. "Prepare yourselves." There was the ring of metal as all weapons were drawn. Tristan notched an arrow in his bow. The horses shifted nervously. The cackle of magpies burst through the treetops, and a pair of the birds disappeared. It made the horses start, but Tristan swiftly loosed an arrow into the trees. It was met with a cry, breaking of twigs and a thud. Silence settled again over the village. Tristan notched another arrow in preparation. The silence was sharply broken by the war cries of dozens of woads, who burst from the trees, from huts and even from a hay wagon. The horses screamed in terror, but held their ground as hell broke over the knights. Lancelot, with incredible dexterity, whipped his blades in circular motions, cutting down the woads at the ran, guiding Solmyr at a canter with his thighs. He could feel the rising bubble of bloodlust, and when Bors shouted the Sarmatian war cry, he joined him, the sound echoing from the ground.

"RRR-OOUU-CCHH!" His shout was cut short as a heavy weight threw him from Solmyr, who reared and whinnied in fear. The woad was on top of him, grappling at his throat, dagger in one hand. Lancelot gritted his teeth, and pushed with all his might, throwing the man from him and jumping to his feet. As he lifted his sword to thrust it at the woad, he felt a sharp pain zip across his forearm. Blood welled in the cut – an arrow narrowly missing him. Pain burned in his hand as he lifted his arm once more, and scarlet rivers gushed down his skin, soaking into the arm of his tunic and across his chain-mail. He hewed the woad's head from its neck, and the body and head thudded to the ground. He turned, bringing his sword upward in a slicing motion to still another woad.

The battle finished abruptly as if had started. Lancelot held the edges of his wound shut with blood-soaked fingers. Dagonet was binding it as Arthur slumped against the wall of a hut. They all looked to their commander, who had never looked so tired after a fight as this one.

"Why were the Southern woads attacking?" Gawain asked. Arthur managed a slow shrug.

"Who knows? They've never been content. But… they're not led by Merlin. Merlin stays North of the Wall as much as he can; he'd never come this far South."

"And it's directly South from us." Galahad muttered, shaking his head in dismay. "They stood no chance. No leader…"

"I never said there was no leader." Arthur snapped, standing and brushing some of the blood from his hands. "Are you okay, Lancelot?"

"It'll heal." Lancelot couldn't hide the wince as Dagonet tied the bandages tight. Arthur smiled.

"Good. I want to get back to the Wall as quickly as possible. If there is unrest both sides of the Wall, there'll be a lot of work for us." The knights mounted, not bothering to clean the dirt away from their faces and armour, only pausing to wipe the blood from their weapons.

The journey back took two days – Lancelot, Gawain and Bors were wounded and needed regular care. Bryanne was waiting for him when he returned, and her face fell at the sight of the bandage, but he refused her sympathies. He sat in his room, watching her with Genna, whose words were now beginning to make sense. She could say:

"Br-an." Whenever she saw her aunt, and: "'Lo Lorla." To greet Lorella. He laughed as Genna gurgled Bryanne's name over and over again, much to the delight of the woad woman.

"Anne." He eventually said, breaking the moment. "You told me before I left that you had something to tell me?" Bryanne bit her lip, standing and cuddling Genna close. The baby clutched her fingers around the chain on her neck, the tourmaline glowing.

"Yes… Lancelot, do you remember what I told a while back? When I told you that I couldn't give Genna the…" She took a deep breath, and he saw the pain in her eyes. "I can't give Genna the life she needs?"

"Yes, but you were just grieving, I –"

"I've thought about it. It's true. Genna needs a family."

"We are her family."

"A proper family, Lancelot." Bryanne said firmly. He knew it was true. They could never have her as their child. Bryanne was too young – too hurt from her past. And he… well, he was a Sarmatian knight. What other reason is there? He fiddled with the edge of his bandages absently. "Lorella told me that she knows a servant from this village South of here…"

"A woad village?" Bryanne blushed.

"Yes."

"Anne…" There was warning in his voice. "I've just come back from a Roman village that was slaughtered. It's too dangerous."

"Not for me… not for a Briton."

"Of course for a Briton!" He cried. "The Romans will kill on first sight. And who's to say this village is safe?"

"It's a secret village… this servant heard about it from a friend who had a sister there. They take in refugees –"

"A secret village, like your village?" Lancelot spat venomously. It was hurtful, and Bryanne looked offended.

"Don't say that." She whispered. He sighed, leaning his forehead in his hand. He couldn't believe what she was suggesting.

"I'd be gone for a few days. There's a family there that will take her in, give her the life she needs." Her voice was pleading. He took a deep breath.

"I'll come with you."

"No. If they see you, they'll kill you before you get within a thousand feet of the village."

"Won't they do the same with you?"

"I'm a Briton." She argued. He had to concede. That was true.

"The Romans will kill you."

"Then teach me to fight." She said, jutting out her angular chin. He snorted.

"Are you serious?"

"Deadly." She answered, her voice low with earnestness.