"Peace of mind comes when your life is in harmony, with true principles and values and in no other way."

Peace of Mind

ISOLDE…

The earth under my feet felt strange, as though it wanted to reject these invading newcomers from the island that was Britannia. There was a stiff landward breeze that ruffled my hair, which now hung two inches below my shoulders.

Behind me, the other knights disembarked from the galley, bidding a farewell to those upon her who they'd befriended over the last week. As they were all Gauls and not Romans, I had no problem with them, though I'd stayed away regardless.

I noticed Artorius sending puzzled and calculating glances my way, as though pondering how to win me over. The others (except Zanticus, who seemed to take pleasure in spreading discord) had accepted his kind, brisk, and ultimately fair manner, and they, too, looked at me strangely when I turned my back on his entreaties for peace between us.

While I sat and thought that first night, a horrible possibility had surfaced in my mind. What if this Artorius was one of the Romans who massacred my family? What then? Granted, it would give me much better access to him, as one of his knights.

But, I pondered, it would be a task to find out if he had been involved. And if so, if I killed him, I'd soon be found out for my treachery and executed forthwith, thereby forfeiting my chance to find the rest of the murderers, which meant that once I found one for certain, I'd have to torture him to discover the identity and location of the others, however distasteful I found that method of interrogation. There had been so many tracks, I remembered. So many… how would I find all of them?

I would have to begin my investigation pending our arrival at Badon Hill, which was to be our post for the coming fifteen years. The matter required further thought.

We rode away from that dreadful blue expanse, myself heading the line in my eagerness to put distance between it and me, the others with some wistful glances – were they not meant for the warrior life, some would have made fair sailors.

Tristan and I, along with two others named Carradas and Brehus, both as quietly observant as we two, were sent to scout in pairs. Each pair was assigned one of our three guides, though the third stayed with Artorius.

Tristan and I rode uneasily – or I do, at least. The fact that he knew my deepest secret made me uncomfortable around him, even fear him for the power he had over me, though he hadn't as of yet wielded it.

So I sat stiffly on Simargl's back while he looked cursedly languid atop his black menace of a horse, listening and absorbing our guide's whispered advice.

It seemed that the four of us who had been selected were to be the regular scouts, while a few of the others would be trained to replace us – should we need replacing.

Brandelis, our guide and the first true Briton I'd met, gathered an accounting of our skills when we showed a more-than-rudimentary knowledge of navigation. After all, we came from the indistinguishable plains of Sarmatia, where every direction yielded the same view and predators both primal and sentient lurked in the high grass. Living there had forced Sarmatians to develop and ingratiate methods of scouting and navigating into every young mind over the generations.

I thanked any listening deity that we were making this journey in the early summer, avoiding the snow that would fall heavily in this area, so there was no tramping through the cold, wet stuff. What there was instead was rain, never-ending drizzle that turned the ground into chilly, clingy muck that stuck in our tack and our clothes.

And the fog. It closed in around us with hardly a swirl to mark our passing, and for awhile we had to tie our horses in a line so as not to lose a man. It muffled and distorted noises until the clearing of the throat seemed as though it came from far away, perhaps an enemy's signal to attack, and the cry of a bird from a mile off sounded eerily close.

Lancelot and Gawain traded quips about the weather the first day, making the boys laugh quietly from beneath their oilskins, which disturbed us scouts when we tried to listen as Brandelis told us to, but heard only the throaty chuckle of forty knights.

There were no incidents with the woads – native Britons – during the three days it took to reach Hadrian's Wall, traveling at a brisk pace. They lived to the north, above the wall, Brandelis told us. We wouldn't be seeing them, much less fighting them, for months yet. He continued our education in the art of scouting.

Unfortunately, as we learned we also had to listen to the others moaning and complaining about the fog, the rain, how much their asses hurt… though they'd been riding a beaten path and so far had avoided the thousands and thousands of damned trees that we had to push through and duck under and maneuver around while still ahorse.

Tristan and I, although still a little leery of each other, had nevertheless broken ground and devised several ways to make them really hurt.

Artorius recalled us near the end of the third day and we joined up at the front of the line. We crested a final hill and it was suddenly spread out before us, a great wall that stretched as far as the eye could see. We stopped as one, without even noticing Artorius' hand signal – a raised hand, which meant Wait for Further Instructions. Brandelis had taught us some of the more basic ones already.

Directly below our position was the fort – high, well-fortified walls and heavy wooden gates with metal braces. Men in heavy plate armor paced the ramparts, scarlet capes flaring out behind them and identifying them as Roman military. Within the fort, smoke from a dozen chimneys rose, unhindered by wind or rain now that both had passed. The weak autumn sunlight illuminated peasants laboring in the fields on the south side of the wall.

Artorius extended two fingers on his raised hand and angled them forward – we started down the hill at a deliberate pace. A shout went up from the wall and we saw a man raise a glass to his eye to better identify us. Glare from the sun reflected off the brass tube and winked merrily at us.

A red flag appeared over the battlements and made its journey, back and forth four times, indicating the arrival of the Commander of the Fort. Arthur had Huddan raise a flag of our own, white, and with it we signaled our acknowledgement, back and forth, and then straight up into parade rest. I resolved to learn this language of flags.

Dirty, grimy, and tired as were, we must have presented quite a sight to this well-organized village as we rode through, looking surly and throwing out black looks like indulgent aunties throw candy. Those selfsame peasants abandoned their work without fear of reprisal and lined the road to stare at us, the young with excitement, and the old with grim faces. They must have seen several groups just like us pass through and pass away, and we were just one more such band to them.

Those great gates were heaved open by four powerful fellows, and we were heralded by trumpeting from the three stately men on either side of our pitiful column. I put on my best damn-your-eyes expression and laid it all around when a whisper started up and I just knew they were whispering about me.

I was about to turn around and gallop out the gates and point Simargl's nose to the southeast when Lancelot leaned over and said in my ear, "Welcome home."

We were shown to our quarters. There were far too many as our group was the smallest so far, but Artorius planned to give the entire second barracks building to the villagers who had large families, or to those who were boarding with other families.

It looked as though this border safe-haven was rapidly expanding. As a result, a good many of us had to double up, but few had a problem with this. Those who did were told to secure a room for themselves. No sense in stirring up unnecessary trouble when it could be avoided, I supposed.

I was, of course, alone in my room, and that was the way I liked it. The room itself was bare except for a bed frame covered with a mattress, a small chest at the foot of the bed, a shaving mirror on the wall, and a simple armor stand and weapons rack in one corner.

There was a narrow window across from the door that was set deep into the wall, and this was where I went first. Our barracks were on the second floor above the stables, so I had a fair view of the small town, and the practice yards as well.

I could see dummies set up, ready to be hacked at with swords and all manner of sharp objects, a line of archery targets, a packed dirt sparring ring, and a rack of pikes and javelins for the Roman regulars. I decided to go down at first opportunity to get a closer look – I wanted to know if there was a place to practice with my kontos.

I dropped my saddlebags on the floor with a thump and opened the chest, but one look at my grubby, damp belongings discouraged me from packing anything away. Instead, I opened the bags and pulled out one of the most useful purchases I was able to make before we left Portus Itius – a completely waterproof bag, in which I had packed a black tunic and breeches I'd gotten from a place in the seaside town.

I quickly shed my wet leathers and the sodden red clothing before unwrapping the cloth that bound my breasts. I wrapped myself in the horse blanket I'd brought up with me, vigorously rubbing color back into my frozen, pruned limbs with the woven cloth.

Then on with the scrap of cloth (also black) I'd procured for a breastband, pinning it snugly around my chest and slipping the soft, loose tunic over my head. I sighed in pleasure at the feel of the fabric that was both warm and blessedly dry against my still-cool skin.

The breeches fit tightly, but I ignored it and tucked the cuffs into my shiny new boots. I cinched my belt over my hips and lightly armed myself – akinakes and two quiet knives, one in my belt and the other in my boot.

I hung the leathers on the armor stand – I made a mental note to look into obtaining proper armor and a helm very soon.

There was a knock on the door.

"Lady," the voice sounded muffled through the door.

"Come," I said.

A head popped in and the young squire's eyes widened. He flushed and looked away. Alright, maybe the breeches didn't have to be quite so tight.

The boy recovered and told me, "Lord Arthur requests your presence in the hall. I'm to show you the way, if you please." His accent was sharp and pronounced.

"One moment?" At his nod, I dashed over to the mirror. Not bad, I reflected, but my wet hair still straggled in my eyes and so I plaited some of it and secured it with strips of my red cloth – a concession for my grief, if you will.

Eying my wet clothing, which was currently making a puddle on the floor, I scooped it up and laid it out on the window sill in hopes it might dry by morning.

Satisfied, I took myself out of the room and followed the squire. When we reached the door to the hall, I heard the rumble of men's voices inside. I hesitated, looked up at the Sarmatian standard hanging over the door, and took a deep breath.

Chin up, head high, I pushed open the doors and stepped into Artorius' domain, and my new life.

"Harder, ladies, put yer backs intae it!"

We looked at the large black man drilling us with undisguised loathing. It had been three days of constant drill, running laps and lunging and working our bodies to the max.

"When will it end?" I asked Bersules, who stood next to me, panting. He smiled grimly in agreement and lunged again, slamming his fist into the dummy that his partner held. Our tormenter, Quintus Dexius Marcellus – who had the sharpest ears of anyone I'd ever met – seemed to cross the distance between us with one leap.

"What was that, girl?" he roared. I flinched and cased my eyes, staring straight ahead – which was currently at the level of his broad chest. Military discipline was drummed into us on the very first day.

When I said nothing, he leaned down and narrowed his eyes dangerously. "Would you like to share that with the rest of us, Your Highness?"

I boiled with rage and knew that my eyes were flashing. I stared up at him without blinking; something that I know made most people uneasy.

"I said, when will it end, sir!" I barked out the last word. Marrok, a cocky bastard and a favorite of our company, learned the proper address the hard way. His black eye still pained him, but it served a purpose – no one had forgotten the lesson.

"Do you want it to end? You can go sit over there and have a drink and rest, if you like."

He sounded remarkably rational and sympathetic and I had to admit, that sounded awfully good at present.

Then his voice suddenly hardened again.

"But when you're out on patrol or on a mission, you'll find yourself unable to fight, unable to run, unable to be anything but helpless! You'll get yourself killed, your brothers-in-arms killed, and you'll save the enemy a hell of a lot of trouble! Go ahead, give up, and go back to your dresses and your cooking and your doting family! You want to know when it ends? It never ends, Sarmatian! It'll end when you're dead!"

I could see his rationale at first, but as soon as he mentioned my family, red rage obscured my vision. I snapped my fist out to punch him hard in the stomach, but he easily knocked my fist aside and belted me one that threw me backward.

"That's more like it," he said, but I didn't pay it any mind while I picked myself off the ground. He turned to go and I let out a yell of fury as I lunged forward, tackling him. He, of course, didn't budge and within a moment I found my face pressed up against the dirt and my cheek smarting where it was scraped raw.

A crushing heaviness on my back told me he'd sat on me and I flailed and shrieked wordlessly, thrashing in an attempt to get at him but I couldn't, I couldn't.

I think I said something like, "You thrice-damned bastard, don't you say a word about my family, you filthy, scheming, arrogant son-of-a-bitch, I'll see you dead if you do, and then-" I think I went on like this for quite awhile, cursing him to the lowest depths of hell and such, before I calmed down enough for him to let me up.

When he finally did, I stood and brushed myself off and looked down at my boots. I could feel his gaze on me stronger than all of the other eyes directed my way, and I looked up and he was frowning. "Your anger is your weakness, girl. It's not a defense; it's a weapon. Use it." Then he nodded rather bemusedly and said, "You've got spirit, by God. You'll do."

There was a moment where I wasn't sure what to do or say, but then his head snapped around to berate Rumo mercilessly for his poor form and weak punches, and I believe he mentioned Ru's mother and a hog at one point, but after my episode it was clear to everyone that this abuse was only poking and prodding to better us and not to make enemies.

I was surprised to find that I could grow to like this man.

Six months later…

Why, why didn't I run away when I had the chance? I berated myself. I could have been warm, I could have been well-fed and well-rested. But no, I had to choose this pitiful existence.

I peered out from under the hood of my cloak, but the fog made it a futile effort. The heavy flakes of snow cut through the thick stuff and it swirled continuously around us, revealing sudden patches of darkness in the tricky gloom.

If we'd been allowed proper arrows, we'd be shooting at these patches and taking down our own people. I could hear Quintus' voice despite his absence. You have to stop being so damn jittery and trust each other!

I trust them, a little voice whined in my head. Sure, my more cynical side persisted. You trust them to watch their own backs and nothing more. Can't expect more than that.

Oh, cut it out, girl, you're acting insane.

We weren't on a mission – not yet. Instead we were in the middle of one of those real-life midnight "ambushes" that Quintus was so fond of.

He thundered through our section of the barracks, shouting, "Wake up, yeh lousy scoundrels, haul yer asses outta yer soft, warm beds and let's get some real work done!"

We all grumbled but turn out with all haste, because we knew by then what was coming if we didn't. None of us fancied starting an ambush cold, sopping wet, and hungry – we preferred to save that for later in the ride.

The worst part about these ambushes, though, is that while sometimes we were "attacked" or "attacking", often nothing happened at all and we fell exhausted but unhurt into our beds for a few hours of sleep before Quintus bellowed, "UP AND OUT!"

At first the nights for these seemed to be picked randomly. Usually it was during the night, especially the first few months, until we learned to always have our armor ready, our weapons at hand, and our clothes within reach before we go to sleep and at all times. I was the example used for this lesson.

I caught on fairly quickly, realizing that the ambushes were always on the change of the moon phase. On full moons, we'd go out at night, except for the third, which was during the daytime. New moons were nighttime every other month, and 1st and 3rd quarter were always day, while half-moons were night.

It was a tricky schedule, and I'm not sure how I figured it out; I just sat down one day after training and with trial and error as my only guide, worked my way through our previous ambushes. With my theory established, I proved it right the next day (a 3rd quarter moon) when we were called to duty.

I began to prepare for those in advance, which worked well for me until it backfired when he suddenly sprung a surprise foray on us, and I was the only one who wasn't ready. I remember my humiliation in avid detail. Quintus had looked hard at me as I stumbled down the stairs, rubbing sleep from my eyes.

There had been a moment of silence, and then he roared, "Lookie 'ere, lads, it's the little princess come to join us! Did yeh enjoy your sleep, princess? I do so 'ope yeh didn't 'ave a rude awakening." I had cowered by Simargl's stall, shame welling up inside me.

All mockery wiped from his face, he had given me a stern look and said, "Laziness will get you killed, but keeping information to yourself will get us all killed, and the innocents around us, besides. Is that what you want?" I shook my head miserably.

"What do you have to say for yourself? Speak up, girl!"

I had straightened and given the popular, intransient military reply: "There's no excuse, sir."

He nodded, satisfied. "See that it doesn't happen again." And that was the end of it.

I had turned to Simargl to start preparing him when Quintus turned around. "And leave your horse; you're on foot today."

I winced, remembering how I had gaped after him, and how much my muscles hurt after that long night of trekking through the wilderness. But like all of his lessons, it stuck.

Now we were in the woods somewhere southeast of Badon Hill. As usual, Tristan, Brehus, Carradas, and I were scouting while the others huddled wretchedly. I could hear their sleepy mumbles through the trees, and I could imagine what they were saying, having heard it countless times before.

"Bloody weather," Lancelot would say.

"I swear, the only thing this damned isle has more of is the damned trees." This from Sagremour, another gloomy one.

"Cheer up, lads, at least we're not dead yet." Balai could be optimistic in a gale on a sinking ship, with no lifeboat and no land in sight, I swear it's true.

Then I heard a noise that was not from our fellow knights, and I hissed to Brehus. The sound of the rain masked my signal from the "enemy" (I doubted even one of our own men could have discerned it) but like Tristan and Carradas, Brehus was trained the same as I and knew exactly what to listen for. He immediately tensed. I sensed his presence shifting to cover my back, as I watched his.

The whistle of an arrow in flight was short-lived and I heard a sharp crack. Whipping around in my saddle, I saw Brehus with his sword out, and two halves of a blunt-tipped arrow lying on the ground next to him.

I have to find out how he does that, I thought.

We moved as one, kicking our horses into a canter – fast enough to present less of a target and to reach our destination quickly, but not so fast that we couldn't dodge the oncoming branches that were the biggest threat to a horseman in the woodlands.

Just before we broke cover and skidded out onto the trail, I whistled shrilly to warn them that we were friendly. Artorius and the rest calmed their skittish mounts and I saw several putting up their bows after the "Friendly" call.

"Don't put those away yet, my lads, we've trouble behind – ah!" I cried out and grabbed my arm. The padded arrow had fallen to the ground, leaving only a puff of red chalk on the back of my shoulder, but it hurt like hell. Those blunted arrows, designed with a wide, flat surface to spread out the force of impact, may not have been deadly but they were painful.

My sword arm hung numbly by my side and I knew I wasn't allowed to use it for the rest of the game – providing I was even able. Ru and Marrok hustled me off between them, me being the "injured" one.

"Take cover!" Artorius called, cool and in control. I envied him for his ability to keep his head in a heated situation. "Archers to the fore, fire at will. Swords, spears to the rear, prepare for combat."

The archers loosed three volleys of their doctored arrows before the "enemy" retreated, leaving about fifteen "dead" and carrying off five or six "wounded". I marveled; that was some fine shooting on our part. There were only fifty or sixty to begin with.

"All casualties to the center. Mind the flanks. Archers to the rear, pick your targets carefully, and do try to avoid shooting our own men, if you would. Swords, spears, to the fore. They're going to charge."

While his knights hurried to comply, I took stock. Next to me, young Galahad had a streak of red across his arm that marked his "injury", where an arrow had grazed him. Had they not been fixed, it would have been a very painful wound, not deadly but crippling in a fight.

Huddan sported a large puff of chalk on his stomach. This one was green, signaling a crossbow bolt, which could punch through armor easily. He was "dead", and was slumped over on his horse's neck and he appeared to be sleeping.

Then he cracked open an eye, saw me watching him, and winked good-naturedly. I grinned – I always liked him – and turned my attention to the other casualties, Itaz and Calogrenant, two boys I didn't know very well but who were talking and completely ignoring the fact that one was supposed to be playing dead and the other ought to have been incapacitated.

Sure enough, as Arthur predicted, they began to charge. We heard the yells before we could see them through the gloom under the trees. Our forces came together with the clanking of metal and the heavy thwacks of wooden practice weapons connecting with leather armor. We "injured" were shunted to the rear, near the archers.

If we hadn't been there, somewhat removed from the din of the fight, I would have missed the first horn call.

"What was that?" I hissed to Huddan, who had sat up and was suddenly alert.

"I don't know, but-" The horn blew again, a breathy, ethereal sound that was much louder this time. When the opposition heard it, they underwent a complete change.

No longer were they the wild, disorganized mass of individual fighters; instead they went still as a unit. Silence descended on the clearing and we heard a growing roar.

The leader of our previous "enemy" began to shout out orders as the unhorsed found their mounts again and organized chaos reigned.

"Sarmatians to the center, NOW!" I heard a familiar bellow, and almost without thinking I followed Quintus' order as I had for the past six months. "You five, hurry it UP!" The Ethiopian galloped out to meet us and walloped our horses on the hindquarters with his sword.

We made all haste to get to the group of Sarmatians and Roman skirmishers, still growing as stragglers came in. I was relieved to see that our fellow scouts, Tristan and Carradas, had made it back unharmed.

"You shall relinquish command to me for the time being," I heard Quintus tell Artorius. "Don't argue. You are not prepared to handle this yet." His voice and expression softened, something I had never seen them do before.

"I promised your father I would do all in my power to keep you safe, and Pelagius extracted that same oath from me. You will have your day, young Arthur."

The man left his charge and Artorius looked up. I quickly looked away. It wouldn't do for him to know that I had witnessed his disgrace. Blasted male pride, and all that.

They came out of the trees like demons, letting loose with wild cries and flailing arms. Their weapons were stone and wood and bone all wrapped with strips of hide, as primitive as they came and all the more deadly when underestimated.

They wore little, hardly covering what needed to be covered, despite the bitter cold. What they did wear was fur-lined and bound tightly around them, leaving nothing to be caught or pulled.

And every inch of their exposed skin was painted blue.

I saw a flash of something when they crashed into our Roman protectors. Blonde hair. Long blonde hair. We'd been warned that there would be savage women fighting, but to see it was an altogether different matter.

Just as that realization came to me, I saw a woad up close for the first time. This one had been lucky so far, and managed to reach the group of boys huddled in the middle. I drew my sword and slashed at him, laying open his chest.

I looked in horror at what I'd done, but he was lost in the mass of fighting and there was no time, no time to think. Only to act, and I signaled Simargl with my knees. My faithful mount wasn't so faithful as he disregarded my command and instead kicked out behind me.

When I looked back to see why, I'm grateful he ignored me. A woad with a long hook, designed to yank unsuspecting riders such as I from their saddles, lay moaning on the ground. Simargl stepped backward, crushing his head in one go.

"You're a vicious horse," I said to him affectionately.

The woad wouldn't have succeeded anyway, because I was using my Sarmatian saddle, with a high front and back to prevent such a fate from befalling me, but I was relieved nonetheless. Thanks to my horse and my gear, my feet remained firmly in my stirrups and I had not yet been unhorsed.

But this didn't help me when a big man with thick arms reached around my waist, trapping my sword arm while at the same time hauling me away from my horse. I heard a cry as the dear beast bit one of them, but my struggles were in vain and I lost sight of Simargl.

Something glanced off the side of my helm, doing little damage but knocking it off my head. My customary braids fell down over my face, while wisps of the loose hair beneath them darkened my vision.

The man holding me spun me around, raising his sword. I saw his grinning blue face and bushy, wild red beard for only a moment before his expression turned to one of sheer surprise and we both looked down. Two arrows had punched through him, and the heads shone wetly in the early dawn.

I laughed in relief. Only a powerful Sarmatian bow at point blank range could have cut into him so easily. Down he went, and I saw my sword and helm and put the one on my head and grasped the other in my hand and-

"Isolde!" I saw a hand reach down. Instinctively I grabbed it as the horse thundered past. Though my shoulder screamed with the effort and the sudden strain, in a moment I was up on the horse, grasping someone around the middle.

That someone turned around and I saw it was Carradas and grinned.

I thumped him on the shoulder. "You devil, did you time it out or were you waiting for him to gut me?" I shouted in his ear over the screams of the dying.

"Didn't look like he was after your guts, just that foolish head of yours. Where's your horse?"

"Don't know, I lost him after I was grabbed."

He turned his head and looked at me incredulously. A woad grabbed his leg and I slashed at the offending hand mercilessly. There was a cry of pain and he fell away.

"You mean you spent all that time teaching your brute Simargl all those whistles and signals for nothing? Use your brain, girl!"

I ducked my head sheepishly and nodded, forgetting that he couldn't see the action.

"Right, I forgot about that." Without further warning, I pursed my lips and blew, letting out the shrillest whistle I could. My savior grabbed his ears.

"Dammit, vixen, what did I tell you about doing that! Are you trying to make me deaf? Keep your obstinate side for the woads. Now go on, find your damn horse."

He was right, of course, and I scanned the surrounding area but I couldn't see him – there he was, nipping and biting without discrimination, which I figured was something I probably ought to discourage. But I was so happy to see him that I launched myself from my position behind Carradas with eyes only for my horse.

I heard a shout from him but ignored it, ducking under blows and slashing angrily at the blue people. Try to take my horse away from me, will you? I don't think so.

One got right up to me and stepped on my sword before I could pull it up out of the woad I'd wounded. The force tore the weapon from my hand and I yanked out my akinakes and buried it hilt-deep in his stomach.

He fell on me and I hit the ground hard, unable to roll with him on top of me. I could feel the wetness of his blood soaking through my leather armor and with his weight pressing me down I couldn't breathe. I panicked. With a growl of desperation, I shoved his body up and off.

The poor bastard lay there gibbering, mouth moving soundlessly. I knelt at his side and I knew I was crying but I don't care, I don't.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," I kept whispering, staring at his face until his mouth stopped moving and just gaped, with wide eyes that I couldn't help but see were a brilliant blue in a handsome young face. I was muttering senseless things now, and my gaze traveled down to where his hands were trying to put his innards back in and I didn't do this, I couldn't, I didn't!

"All right now, you're fine, up now," I heard, and hands lifted me up onto the back of my dear, dear Simargl.

I hardly noticed that the fighting had stopped, but I just kept seeing the face of that poor boy I'd killed, his cornflower eyes staring up at the sky, at me.

They put us in a string and we all slumped in our saddles, in various states of exhaustion, many with tears slipping silently down their cheeks. I saw several fall in and out of sleep as we limp slowly back to the fort, and I envied them their escape.

"Poor children," a grizzled veteran looked at us with pity in his eyes. I feigned sleep but I felt his eyes on my bloody, tear-streaked face. "They shouldn't have to see this."

Another murmured sorrowfully, "They keep sending them younger and younger. Soon they'll be mere babes training in the practice courts and riding out on missions. It's not right."

"That lad Arthur held his own today. He's seen some bloodshed already. After all, he grew up here, couldn't have avoided it if he tried. But he'll be good for these boys." Again that strange sensation of being watched and I knew they were looking at me.

"What were they thinking, sending a girl to fight? She's hardly older than my own daughter." Ah, I thought numbly. So that's the way of it. Don't you worry, no soft Roman girl will be joining us anytime soon. You can marry her off to that fine boy like you want to and never have to worry.

I wasn't making any sense now, not even in my own head, and I nodded off into an uneasy sleep.

I remember reaching the Wall and hearing demands and enquiries, and shouts for a physician, quick, this man's in pain! I remember the feel of the reins slipping from my hand and the assurance that someone will take care of the beast, don't you worry – OW! 'Twon't be me, for sure. But I can't for the life of me put pictures to these sounds, except for a glimpse of hay and then darkness.

My eyes felt gritty and tears surfaced at the bright light turning the inside of my eyelids into a patchwork of color. When I opened them I had to squint against the shaft of sunlight pooling around me.

I groggily turned my head and saw that I was in my own room. The details of the previous night – or was it the night before – inevitably came flooding into my mind, throwing every detail into sharp relief.

"Aye, milord, he did," I heard. It was the first indication I had that I wasn't alone, and I kept my face turned toward the wall so as not to give myself away.

"Casualties?" Arthur's young voice was heavy with weariness.

"Twenty-four wounded, six of them Sarmatians. Five dead. Decimus Brutus, Oppius Labeo, Sextus Asellio, Publius Vetus, and…" The speaker trailed off.

I perceived Arthur's dread in his strained tone. "And? That was only four, Jols. Who else?" I braced myself. Anyone could tell it was one of ours.

Jols continued reluctantly. "And Huddan, one of your Sarmatians."

Huddan is dead, too. Something broke inside me. Not entirely shattered, just a little chip, like a blemish on a teacup, but something that changes it forever. That was the sort of feeling I had. I'd liked Huddan.

There was a defeated sigh. I took a chance and moved my head, looking at my commander and his squire. Neither noticed me. The older boy was slumped down in the chair drawn up next to my bed, head in hands. From where I lay I could see that there was pain on Arthur's face – the pain of guilt and responsibility.

Yes, I thought. I am far too familiar with that kind of pain.

He looked up at the other boy and I could see that his eyes were bloodshot. I felt a pang of sympathy. "I shouldn't have pushed them. This was to be their final 'ambush' and I took them farther than I'd intended, beyond the area we swept beforehand, to see how they handled the change in plans. And now one of my knights is dead. Did I do wrong?"

He looked beseechingly at Jols, who reddened and fidgeted at being addressed so familiarly. He always did rather idolize Arthur.

"I'm not one to say, milord," said the dear boy. I think if he'd answered the wrong way, Arthur might have just crumpled up and lost himself.

I paused and wondered why I was suddenly so comfortable when I thought about Arthur. Why I was suddenly calling him by the name I'd sworn off of. But then I remembered his face, flooded with a myriad of emotions and capped by a mop of curly black hair that was swept back from the eyes of an old soul, looking down at me crouched in the woad's blood, and saying, "All right now, you're fine, up now." It was Arthur.

I heard Jols' footsteps retreating and I reached out to touch Arthur's hand. He jumped and looked down at me in shock, as though he'd quite forgotten I was there at all.

"Couldn't have known," I rasped. "You couldn't have known, you were only trying to do your job, and that's what kept the rest of us alive. If you hadn't pushed us, we'd all be dead. You've got to let it go and forgive yourself."

"And you do that so easily, do you?" He snapped, and I drew my hand back, narrowing my eyes at him.

"What does that mean?" I sat up in my bed and stared at him.

He looked contrite. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have snapped at you. It's been a very long day, and-"

"Not that, you fool. What do you mean I don't forgive myself?" He bristled.

"I know the reason you're here, and why you hate Romans like you do-" I cut him off again.

"So Tristan told. I shouldn't have expected him to keep it a secret. But dammit!" I pounded my thigh with a fist. "He should have! He's the bloody silent scout, not the snitch! He told, I trusted him, I-" This time it was his turn to cut me off.

"Tristan knows?" He asked with genuine surprise. I stopped my tirade and blinked at him. Then something he'd said clicked in my mind.

"Just what do you know about the reason I hate the Romans?" I asked, and my voice is dangerously low.

"I know that it was the Romans who killed your family." In a moment I had my knife pressed against his neck. He swallowed but showed no other outward sign of surprise. He continued.

"They returned to Rome after the deed was done – several deeds, in fact. Yours wasn't the only clan erased. The report was forwarded to Portus Itius to be delivered to Marcus Tullius upon his arrival, as he was the senior officer appointed to collect the new Sarmatian recruits. A ranking officer intercepted the message and it was read aloud at a meeting of the legion officers. I was there, as well, because of my status as your commanding officer." He paused.

"Go on," My voice quavered.

"When you arrived only days later and I heard that you'd been conscripted after your clan was killed by the Huns, I knew immediately that they were victims of the Romans who were sent to decimate your people and start a war between the Huns and Sarmatians. Afterward, they hoped to strike the victors down while they were still weak from the fight."

"If I'd known, I would have tried to stop it. I may only be a junior officer, but my father had influence, and I might have been able to do something; for that I am truly sorry."

"I don't need your pity, Arthur," I said, somewhat more gently. The knife had long since dropped from his throat.

To my surprise, he snorted. "Don't be ridiculous. It isn't only that you're one of my knights; in fact, that has nothing to do with it. It was plain wrong. I will go to any lengths to preserve justice for every man, woman, and child that I come upon in this life. I would have tried for them as well. I would have tried for all of them." And for reasons I couldn't understand, there were tears standing in his eyes.

After a time, he spoke again.

"I know it's cold comfort, for someone once offered me the same, but I do know how you feel." He said.

"And how could you possibly know that?"

"When I was seven, the woads killed my father in battle. He was a commander of the Sarmatian knights of his time, as I am now. His death – it shattered my mother, Igraine, and left me listless and drifting. Three years later my mother was killed in an attack on our village. I told you that first night that she was once a woad. She was murdered by her own people."

"I watched her die, heard her screaming inside the burning house before it collapsed on her. That was the night I took up my father's sword, swearing vengeance against Merlin and his blue demons, because I couldn't save her. It's so hard to forgive yourself for being helpless."

"After that, I was put into the charge of Pelagius and lived at his estate until I joined the Roman army, requesting my father's post. Pelagius went back to Rome, and I came here, with my old friend and protector."

"Quintus." I guessed. He nodded.

"Quin was my rock. He kept me from drowning in despair after Mother passed. He made me eat when I just wanted to curl up and die."

"So, you see, I do have an idea of how it feels to have your world stolen away. Now I am on my way to collecting the debt Merlin owes me."

I thought about what he'd said before. Was I being a hypocrite, urging him to forgive himself and put aside the blame for Huddan's death? I had the sinking feeling that I might've been.

My voice broke when I said, "There's only one difference that matters, though. You couldn't have helped, you were only a child, and innocent. I was fifteen when my family was slaughtered, and I could have warned them. I am guilty, Arthur."

"I'll tell you something you don't know. I was our patrol, our protection. I shirked my duty and they weren't warned. Instead, they were cut down and betrayed by Rome without a chance to defend themselves, but the biggest betrayal was mine."

"It was Romans who betrayed them, Isolde, not Rome," Arthur corrected me fiercely. "That is not something Rome would do. Rome stands for freedom, for equality. It would not have turned on you. Men can fail. Ideals cannot."

"There's a part of me that will never like anything remotely Roman, Arthur. It's hard for me to see anything but Rome when I look at you, whatever your character, whatever your ideals." I growled in frustration. "This would be so much easier if you weren't Roman."

A light came into his eyes, and he looked at me anew. He stretched out his hand, bridging the gap between us, and said, "Hello, I am Arthur, your new commander and good friend."

I took the hint and played along. "Hello, I'm Isolde of Sarmatia. I'm pleased to meet you – I think. Arthur – would that be Artorius Castus of Rome?"

He straightened, acting indignant. "Certainly not. I am Arthur… of Britain." I could tell how much it cost him to say this, and I felt my heart warm to him.

I nodded wisely. "Ah, a Briton. Well, sir, I believe you are correct. We might just make a fine pair." And I put my hand in his.

We stayed like that for quite awhile. Then, "Erm… if you're too busy we can come back later." I turned to see Lancelot, Gawain, Carradas, Brehus, Saros, Bersules, and Marrok standing in the doorway. Behind them I could just make out Ru and Drudwyn in the hall.

I was the first to break the silence. "No, you twits, get in here. I swear you've all got one-track minds." While they were distracted I surreptitiously wiped my eyes on the sheet. I noticed Arthur doing the same with the back of his hand and I smiled at him. It was a small thing, but it went such a long way.

We went down to join the rest of our brothers-in-arms in the stables. Arthur stopped at the door as if to let us have our moment to ourselves, but I pushed him through and he joined us in our grief.

I watched as he went around the group, offering comfort as best he could, with a firm hand on the shoulder and a quiet word. I decided I liked man he was turning out to be. There was something promising and huge about him, and I knew that he was destined for great things.

But when he'd made his rounds, he came to stand by me, and I welcomed his company. It was a far cry from two days earlier when I avoided him at all costs, and we earned some curious looks from the rest of them.

Huddan was to be burned that night in the old way, for although Arthur would've liked to bury him in the Christian fashion, we were yet pagans and moreover, the ground was frozen now that it was January. We couldn't dig a grave for him in any case.

We ringed his pyre in a circle two or three deep. It was a simple arrangement; a body wrapped in white cloth lay in a shallow hollow in the ground – as deep as we could dig it, which was only about four inches. Brush was heaped around the bundle.

Arthur solemnly accepted a burning torch from Itaz, Huddan's closest friend. He leaned down to thrust the flame into the brush.

"This is your fault, Roman!" There came a cry just before the pyre was lit. Arthur hesitated. The crowd of knights pulled away from the angry speaker. It was Zanticus, as I should have known. He pointed an accusatory finger at our commander. It was obvious he had already partaken of the drink, and the men hummed with anger.

"Unsavory bastard."

"Disturbing Huddan's peace, he is."

"Ought to show him what respect is, then he'll think twice before he maligns a pyre-burning with his malcontent."

"He's heaping his troubles on a departing soul. Bloody coward!"

They began to converge on Zanticus, who now started to back away. His attempt at spreading discord amongst us had backfired.

Why do I always have to be the sensible one? I wondered as I beat them to the disharmonious boy, conveniently forgetting that I was not, nor had I ever been anything of the kind. I looked him in the eye and deliberately turned my back on him, shaking my head as if in disappointment, like he wasn't worth my time, or Huddan's.

The others saw me do this and grumbled but followed suit, returning their attention to Arthur and our fallen comrade. I breathed a sigh of relief. The last thing we needed was another dead knight, or another enemy.

With a last apologetic glance at Huddan's earthly remains, Arthur dragged the flame around the edge of the dry branches. The smallest twigs caught, the flame running up their lengths to the cloth. We watched as our friend and comrade went up in a blaze.

We didn't stay long. Itaz was the last to leave his friend's side, but we waited, some of us, and clapped him on the shoulder and took him into our midst.

Back in my room, I stared out my open window at the lingering glow and remembered the way Huddan had looked over at me and winked in the small hours of the new day – was it only this morning? – so vibrant and full of life. It struck me as morbidly ironic that he was only playing dead this morning and now he was dead for real. He was alive before and now he was just… dead. Gone. And tomorrow we would cast his ashes into the wind, and he'd become a mere memory, as we all would one day.

With these thoughts running rampant in my mind, I sighed and closed the shutters against the bitter wind.

Tonight we were going to get rip-roaring drunk, completely inebriated. So far I'd avoided the tavern, particularly at night when the boys lost their inhibitions, as well as their sense of self-preservation when they would attempt to take advantage of my generous nature and find that I wasn't quite as generous as they believed.

As I planned to lose myself tonight, I'd alleviated myself of all weapons but a single knife, so I wouldn't accidentally – or intentionally – kill anyone, or by some chance fall on my sword.

When I strode into the tavern I got a hearty cheer from my lads. Strangely, they'd become my errant flock of sheep with only me to keep them steady, and in my mind I had come to refer to them as "mine". I'm sure that without a woman's influence they'd all have killed each other within days of meeting. They need me so much more than they think, I gloated.

"Vixen," Ru latched onto my empty weapons belt and dragged me onto his lap, leaning for a kiss. I placed two fingers on his lips and gently pushed him away.

"That sort of thing won't be even remotely in the picture until I've had a drink, Ru," I said, and wrinkled my nose at the strong reek of alcohol permeating his breath. "Several drinks, in fact."

I grabbed his tankard and downed it. It's the weakest stuff to be found, but still it sets a nice fire in my belly and I leaned over and snagged Lancelot's as well.

"Thanks very much," I said. He scowled at me but cheered up quickly when a red-headed girl came to serve him and was pulled onto his own lap. She laughed at him and rolled her eyes, clearly used to his antics.

"Vanora," he slurred to her chest. "Will you marry me? We can 'ave a dushen children an' a big housh wi' no Romansh 'tall." He leered at a passing wench and then returned his attention to Vanora's front.

Amazingly, he didn't get slapped or married, and I saw Bors bristle (apparently he'd fancied her for quite some time) when Vanora patted Lance on the cheek like a child and slipped nimbly off his lap.

"Sorry, Lance, but you're liable to break my poor heart and leave me with those dozen children while you go off with the newest wench, so I'll not try your bed, but I will get you another ale, if you wish."

Lancelot made a noise that the girl took to be assent and she went off to get him his drink, easily avoiding the reaching hands.

I looked down at Ru's hands still holding me tightly around the waist and sighed in annoyance as one wandered higher than I liked. I smiled sweetly at him and said, "Dear Rumo, remove your hand or I'll do so for you."

He looked down and despite his thoroughly intoxicated state he noticed the prick of my knife against his fingers and gingerly lifted his hands. I slid off his lap and patted his cheek like I'd seen Vanora do, planting a quick kiss on the other side of his face.

"Thanks," I sat down next to Drudwyn, who'd already taken a lover and wasn't the womanizing type, and so presented no threat to me. If I was going to start frequenting this place on a regular basis, I'd do well to learn tricks to avert a man's attentions, I thought, because most of these boys would chase anything with breasts. I decided the girl Vanora would be a good place to start.

The Sarmatians occupied most of the inner portion of the tavern, while Romans were scattered on the outskirts of the foreign group. A few Sarmatians idly tossed dice with them.

For the most part, we knights had formed three groups, determined mostly by age. Despite that, most of us had several friends in the other circles. The older knights had been earmarked for the taking when the last Roman sweep came through Sarmatia eight years prior to our conscription. Some, like Bors and Dagonet, came from the same village. As I understood it, Bors was a relation of Lancelot – a cousin, I thought. Zanticus was largely left alone, though I couldn't say whether this was forced isolation or if it was voluntary.

The younger knights had made a beeline for each other from the very first. We thought they'd formed some kind of secret brotherhood amongst themselves, and as long as they didn't annoy the rest of us, we were glad for them. There weren't so many of them – only Askhkadar (Kandak's younger brother), Johfrit, Dynadin, Mabon, Palomydes, Galeron, Respendial, and Gavarium. Young Galahad had somehow found himself ostracized from the band of youngsters, perhaps because the boy spent much more time with Gawain than with the lads his own age, and so had permanently attached himself to our crowd, most of whom came from outlying tribes to the north or east. There were few Iazyges, and many Roxolani and Alanians.

Until his death, Huddan had been a part of our group as well. The thought that we would never see his laughing face at our table again struck me fast and hard. When the busty redhead came around again with tankards balanced skillfully in her hands, I grabbed my own and stuck my nose in the foam and gulped at it, trying to forget the cheerful look on Huddan's face, the look that was fixed in my head.

Then that image was replaced by the blue eyes of the boy I killed. That poor boy, who was hardly the age of my own knights and best friends. He was there and now he was dead. Alive and dead. Life and death. Hope and dread. The words made a sick rhyme in my head.

The room spun slowly around me as I started in on another pint of the strong stuff. This was… what, my fifth? Sixth? I giggled, not noticing the stares this elicited from the other knights. Did it matter?

I was vaguely surprised when I shoved the wench off Lancelot's lap and climbed on top of him myself – a sure sign my senses had gone – and twined his curls around my fingers. He quickly got over his bafflement and began to look interested.

"'Sn't thish nice?" I slurred, hiccupping. I giggled again, and burped.

I laughed hysterically at that, and soon it wasn't tears of laughter I was crying, and I found myself sobbing into Lancelot's tunic. He looked helplessly at the others, who shrugged.

"What's going on?" I heard a voice ask, and I looked up.

"Isolde here's tryin' to drown her sorrows," Bors answered. "Same's the rest uv us."

"Trishtan!" I wailed, nearly falling off Lancelot's lap in the process. "'Ts'all my fault. I din't mean for 'im to die, or any of 'em. I'm shorry, I really am. Y'shouldn't like me, none'o'you. I'm a dishgrace, 'n'ish all my fault. I'm gonna kill ev'ry lasht one uv 'em, an' I don' deserve t'live."

I looked at the others suddenly, tears shining in my eyes and snot running from my nose. "Y'don't know wot I di-" hiccup "did, do you?" I said in a stage whisper. "I b-"

A warm hand gently closed over my mouth and I blinked up at Tristan and stuck my tongue out, licking his hand. It was something my brother used to do when I tried to quiet him in the same way.

Tristan stared at me in fascinated disgust, thunderstruck. His eyebrows had disappeared under his fringe.

"I believe you've had quite enough," he said, removing his hand and reaching for my tankard.

"'Ey!" I protested loudly. "Thash my ale! Getcher own, y'swine! Besides, I was jusht 'bout to tell 'em how I-" the hand clapped back over my mouth and I trailed off.

"That's supposed to be a secret, remember?" He reminded me gently, looking quite bemused at this point.

"Mfft!" I mumbled and he took his hand away so as to better hear whatever foolishness was in my head.

"Right," I said in a whisper that was heard easily at the nearest table of Romans, who were also staring at me and laughing.

"Sorry, ladsh, ish a secret. Can't tell you." I grabbed my stomach suddenly. "Ohh… don't feel good, Lansh." Lancelot, looking alarmed, tried to push me away before what he knew was coming, but it was too late. He looked disgustedly at the puddle of vomit around his boots.

Strong, lean arms lifted me up and I snuggled into Tristan's chest. I inhaled and said, "You shmell good, Trishtan," before passing out in his grasp, thereby sparing myself from further public humiliation.

Brilliant white light stabbed into my eyes, reaching behind them to gouge out my brain. I squinted against the harsh sun and saw that someone had turned my room around to face the east, pulled back the cloth that covered the window, and opened the shutters, letting cold air and sunshine pour over me. I thought idly that I had to stop waking up like this, with a pounding headache and light in my eyes.

"Put it out," I moaned.

"I can do a great many things, but I can't put out the sun."

"Go 'way, Tristan. And put my room back, I like it facing west," I whined, still befuddled.

"I would, but your room is still in full view of every sunset. You're in my room."

My eyes snapped open and I shot upright in the bed that wasn't mine to find out that one, I was only in my breastband and trousers, and two, sitting up so fast was not a good idea.

"Kill me now, please, and put me out of my misery. Tristan, what exactly did we do last night?" I asked, not particularly eager to know the answer. I glared at him when he chuckled.

"You don't remember our amazing night of sensual, passionate lovemaking? You wound me."

I murdered him with my eyes. "That is not something Tristan would say. Since when did you become Lancelot?"

He stiffened almost imperceptibly. "Oh, but you haven't heard the best part yet," he said, and there was a definite chill in his response.

"I'm sure you remember up to the point where you almost regaled everyone with your somewhat secret story, and then vomited all over Lancelot's boots before fainting in my arms, yes?" I nodded miserably.

"Soon after that, we returned to your room where you came to and tried to undress yourself – while I was present. I managed to stop you from removing your breeches, but your tunic was ripped beyond immediate repair. Then I had to hold onto you before you flung your foolish self out of your window with a sheet over your shoulders. I believe you thought you had wings."

"No more… please stop." I picked up my pillow and pressed my burning face into it. Maybe I'd get lucky and smother myself.

"As it was, you presented quite a sight to the respectable townsfolk strolling below. You made quite an impression on several of them, and by now you're quite a legend."

"Perhaps you'd like to hear how you threw yourself at Arthur when he came in to make sure you were all right, making some rather suggestive comments. When he told me to look after you, you called me a 'big, bad wolf' and referred to our brave, blushing commander as an 'old coot'. I can't see either resemblance, myself."

"Finally I had to bring you here to be sure you didn't hurt yourself. And don't worry about them getting the wrong impression about you staying in my room; they were sure to hear you howling at the moon all night long. All in all, a most entertaining evening, don't you think?"

I stayed silent, afraid to look at him.

He said nothing more, instead leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. The silence finally became too much for me and I mumbled into my pillow.

"I can't understand you," he said. I took the pillow from my mouth, still not meeting his eyes.

"Thank you for watching out for me, Tristan," I whispered ashamedly, my voice low. "I'm sorry I'm such a bother."

He sighed audibly and tilted my head up with a finger under my chin. I stared determinedly at the hollow at the base of his throat.

"You aren't a bother, little vixen. You're worth every minute." Before I could ask what he meant his mouth was on mine, caressing my lips slowly and sweetly. He pulled away for a moment. I looked up at him in amazement. I opened my mouth to ask what… well, what something. But then he brought his lips back to mine, savagely plundering and tasting and demanding more, and I quite forgot whatever it was I'd been about to say..

I unconsciously slid my arms around his neck, wrapping my fingers up in his hair and drawing him closer. His tongue sought entrance and instinctively I granted it, reveling in the things he was making me feel. I felt his hand stroke down my bare side and shivered.

The gasping and grabbing had an air of desperation in it and I knew I should've stopped it, but it felt so good, so right…

A thump from the hall saw us leaping apart, me rolling over to face the wall and Tristan going to the window and looking out over the town. I could hear his harsh breathing as he tried to reassert control over himself and I grinned, steadying my own heartbeat.

The door opened and I heard Gawain say, "Tristan, have you seen Isolde? We can't find her any-oh." I lay still as though asleep until I heard him snort and say, "Tristan, you dog. Well, when she wakes up, tell her that-" But by this time I had sat up, clutching the sheet to my chest and glaring at Gawain.

"I'm up, I'm up. Ow." I said, holding my head, and I didn't have to pretend it hurt, as it was setting up a heavy throb in retribution for everything I had put it through the night before. I saw Gawain, too, was cradling his head in his hands.

"Come on, sunshine, time to go get some breakfast. That is, if you and Tristan are finished." He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. I glared at Tristan. So much for not getting the wrong idea.

I blushed and protested hotly. "I was a little drunk last night, and Arthur made Tristan keep me from – from throwing myself out a window or something. Ask him yourself. Nothing happened." I felt myself get redder as I thought that something definitely had happened. I looked irritably at Tristan and wondered why he wasn't denying it as well.

"Right. Well, Lance says to come have breakfast and then cook up some of that hangover remedy you have. Says it works wonders." I looked at his hopeful face and sighed.

"Oh, fine. Turn around, I have to get dressed."

I saw him grin. "So you are naked!" He said, no doubt oblivious to how idiotic he sounded.

"I – erm – tried to undress myself last night. Tristan had to stop me but… well, I got almost halfway, alright? Now turn around, or I won't make you anything and you'll just have to wallow in your misery for the rest of the morning."

I was pleased to see him turn immediately to face the door. Tristan silently tossed me one of his shirts, which was too large but I shrugged it on anyway – I only had to make it to my room to get another tunic, after all. I was acutely aware of his gaze intent on my bare back.

"I'm decent," I said. "You can turn around now."

Gawain stifled his guffaw at the too-big shirt dwarfing my small frame and I scowled in Tristan's direction. Gawain noticed this and raised an eyebrow.

"Tristan, you're sure nothing happened between you two last night?" He joked.

"Of course something happened," Tristan said with a straight face. I gasped, outraged. The bastard! He wouldn't tell… would he?

Gawain's eyes widened. "Do tell," he said.

I was nearly speechless with rage, while the small part of me that was even remotely reasonable tried to tell the rest of me that this was just giving him what he wanted, and that was to get me riled up, but I didn't listen.

"What – I don't – nothing-" I choked out.

"Come, now, Isolde, why deny it? He obviously knows already. There's no reason to keep it a secret any longer. After all, once it's born they'll all know."

I thought I might pop. The heat radiated from my face and I was sure I was turning purple.

Gawain, on the other hand, had gone very red and was having trouble standing. "Born? Born? Bloody hell! You – you're – you're not – excuse me, I'll be – be outside." And he disappeared out the door, his uproarious laughter perfectly audible through the wooden walls.

If it's true that if you want something enough you'll achieve it, I wonder why the floor didn't just swallow me up right there.

Well, I thought, at least he had the decency not to laugh in my face.

I was just about to stalk out after the little rat when I spotted Tristan facing away from me and leaning against the windowsill, tiny tremors of mirth shaking his shoulders. I glared furiously at him.

"And here I thought you said they wouldn't get the wrong idea. Something about me howling at the moon all night long."

"Oh, I made that part up," was the strangled response, "but the rest was all true." I had the sudden urge to put my foot in his backside – his rather hard, well-muscled backside…

My glower became a feral grin as I hit upon a devious idea.

I walked over to him on silent feet, reaching around his waist and pressing my body against his. I stood on tiptoe to nuzzle his neck and breathed a few words into his ear.

"Tristan," I growled, and I heard him swallow hard, a small fracture in his iron composure. "I'll get you back for that. Just you wait." And as I pulled away I let my hand trail across his stomach and my fingertips brushed his thigh.

He whipped around before I closed the door and I gave him a smouldering look through my lashes.

Out in the hall, I looked at Gawain, who'd calmed down enough to avoid another glare from me. Apparently he figured out that he'd been had. I barked out a gruff, "Let's go," as I breezed past.

He jogged to catch up to me. "By the way," he said. "Nice tattoos."

"You rogue!" I cried. "Get, cur! Shoo!" He ran, sniggering manically. Laughing, I followed.

MUSE…

On the other side of the door, Tristan slumped against the wall, weak-kneed.

"If you knew just what you did to me, girl," he muttered, though he got the distinctly uncomfortable feeling that she knew exactly what she did to him. The scout turned to look out the window once again. The horse trough caught his eye, the ice from the previous night newly broken, and he strode out the door to go down to it.

Cold water was beginning to sound like a very good idea.

End Chapter.

Originally I didn't intend to put that last scene in, but I was brainstorming in class and had an idea, so I wrote a dust-bunny, and I just had to add it.

Oh, I just love knowing what might be happening before you do. Enjoy!

Ribhinn

Review.