The Long Way Around

by HeadintheClouds16

She was once told the there is no worse death than the end of hope. Yet after two years trapped in the 5th century AD under the thumb of the Romans, Charlotte no longer agrees with that sentiment. Loaded onto a ship destined for Britain, Charlotte soon realizes she must decide quickly who she needs to be; a woman longing for the past or a woman ready to hope again.

1. The Convoy

Hello!

It is an absolute pleasure to be back and writing again - so for those who know my other stories, hello again old friends, and for those that have had a hankering for some good old King Arthur fanfiction, good to see there are some of us still kicking.

This has been a story on my mind for years (one could say since 2004 which definitely dates me a bit). I've had odd stories jotted about it here and there but life got in the way. So, as a new years resolution, I have decided to actually do it. Consider this my first foray back into writing so all reviews, the good, the bad, and the ugly, are all welcome.

I hope you enjoy this. A little bit of Mary-Sue never hurt anyone and in this day and age, honestly, I feel like we've missed it.

So without further ado, enjoy! (Or don't, it's your choice)

DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN ANY OF THE CHARACTERS OR PLOT LINES AS DEPICTED IN THE 2004 FILM 'KING ARTHUR' BY ANTOINE FUQUA. THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION DEDICATED TO THE HARD WORK AND EFFORT PUT FORWARD BY THOSE WHO WORKED ON THE FILM. THE ONLY CHARACTER I OWN IS CHARLOTTE.

Day 721.

Standing next to the covered wagon, I watched as the dark night slowly gave way to a dull, misty morning. I made a small notch on the pale wooden carving with my nail, wearing away a bit of the soft wood until a small crescent was left. Rows upon rows littered the small idol, its edges now smooth after the two years.

Nearly two years.

The thought was sobering.

Glaring at the small idol in my hands as if it were the cause of my troubles, I shoved it harshly back into the small pocket of my dress. Shaking my head, I let out a soft grunt in annoyance at the dark turn of thought. There was no point in dwelling on the amount of time I had been here. I had more than enough time to do that later. Nights were particularly long and thinking on my misfortunes had become almost routine at this point.

I had more important things to think about this morning. The light mist caressed my cheek and I resisted a shudder. Scanning the horizon, I briefly wondered what lay beyond the fog when a figure slowly emerged.

As if on que, a small but familiar man appeared out of the growing mist and made his way over to where I stood. His dark black tunic and cropped Roman hairstyle easily allowed me to recognize Horton, the Bishop's manservant, hurrying over with his usual frown.

Keeping my back straight, I shifted so that I was no longer leaning against the wagon. The ropes on my wrists chaffed slightly but the lax lead allowed me some reprieve.

I waited for Horton to speak first. I knew better than to speak unless spoken to by someone of higher rank and instead kept my face void of expression. Horton seemed to regard me with a mix of wariness and regret before shoving a small water-skin into my hands.

I also knew better than to question his motives. I nodded in quiet thanks and took several large gulps before handing it back.

"We have another day before we reach the fort," Horton said, his voice quiet. "Upon arrival, you will be brought to the fort commander for punishment. As per Bishop Germanus' request."

While my grasp of Latin had greatly improved since my first day, I still had to focus on his words. Horton often spoke both quickly and quietly, which was not ideal for someone who was still learning the nuances of an ancient language.

Letting the unfamiliar words filter through my mind for a second, I quickly grasped the direction. Resisting the urge to sigh, I instead asked a question.

"What will they do to me?" I asked, my thoughts having already gone through all of the possible scenarios. None had proven positive. "At the fort?"

Horton shifted uncomfortably on his feet and looked around nervously. He had always been a nervous man, and I wondered if there was ever a time where he did not look like he wanted to sprint away at moments notice.

"It is for Bishop Germanus to decide. He will ensure your punishment atones for your crimes against your household."

"Crimes…" I said, my voice soft despite the flare of anger I felt flush through me. I would never openly question the Bishop, but I still gritted my teeth in frustration. Switching to English just for a moment I muttered quietly to myself, earning a slightly horrified look from Horton.

"My only crime was getting on the wrong ship..."

Horton again seemed unsettled but more from the unfamiliar language. He made a hasty sign of the cross against me and I quickly shut my mouth.

While I knew he was not an unkind man, he also was still a Roman. And my experience with Romans had so far proven two things: Romans were cruel and above all else, vindictive.

Stuffing the water-skin back into his belt, Horton seemed to hesitate for a moment. Horton had shown me little but awkward indifference for most of the trip towards the island so the hesitation caused a small flicker of uncertainty to shiver down my spine.

Other than giving me bits of food and water, he avoided me like the plague. Was there something else he knew?

"You should have known the punishment of fleeing your master and stowing away aboard a Roman ship," Horton admonished suddenly, his eyes flicking up to meet mine. "You brought this upon yourself and doing so has sealed your fate. I do not know your punishment, but I pray to God for your sake that it will be merciful."

With a final quick prayer, Horton hurried back into the mist. Pressing my head against the wood of the wagon, I let out a low sigh.

After months of planning my escape from the villa, I had somehow gotten myself into an even worse mess than ever before. For a brief moment, I thought that I was finally free. Finally free to be away from the confines of Rome and my Roman master.

Until a sailor dragged me from the ship's berth and threw me at the feet of none other than Bishop Germanus himself.

I still could not believe my luck, or lack of. Of all the ships I could have chosen to hide within, I chose the one the Bishop would take to Britain. Staring at the man on the cold wood of the Roman ship, I remember thinking for a split second that perhaps I had died and had gone to Hell. And the Bishop had been waiting there in glee.

But instead, the small flickering smile on the older man's face only cemented the reality that it was all real. I almost wished he would have ended it all right there.

"Perhaps I am in hell," I murmured in English, closing my eyes for a moment against the damp mist. A horse whinnied nearby and I could finally hear the soldiers beginning to wake. It would be only a few minutes before we set off again.

Pushing myself back up into standing position, I did what I could whilst tied to the wagon to stretch. It would be another full day of walking, and though the last month had allowed my legs and feet to toughen up, I was not about to be dragged behind the wagon again due to a cramp.

A Roman solider snickered at my motions as he walked by with his horse and I did my best to ignore him. The less attention I drew, the better. The Bishop had gone out of his way to ensure that no one touched me on the voyage over but it only seemed to bolster interest amongst the Roman contingent that joined him.

The soldiers seemed to regard me with only more curiosity with each passing day and more than once I stayed awake out of fear of closing my eyes.

I again wondered about the punishment I would face at the fort. I was too tired of being afraid to linger on the idea of a punishment so instead I morbidly went through the various scenarios I had seen since my time in Rome.

Beatings, floggings, brandings, poisonings,… The list went on. But it kept my mind busy.

Yet the fort and the rumored men at the fort apparently were more barbaric than even those in Rome. Some of the soldiers had whispered along the journey about the men who roamed the fort, and how they were no more than wild dogs. Pagans who killed for sport and bathed in their enemy's blood.

While I highly doubted that these men were as awful as the Romans seemed to think, I did worry that perhaps the Roman indifference I had faced was the lesser of two evils. I at least knew what to expect from the Romans and had grown used to it.

I didn't really know what these barbarians would do instead.

After a few minutes, the Romans were once more mounted and the Bishop's convoy was off. At the back of the convoy, I drudged along behind the provisions wagon. The mud was already thickening, and I found I had grown accustom to the feeling of mud coating my legs. My Roman dress and small slippers did little to protect me and I tried not to wince at every rock I had to step over.

I could make out the line of Romans ahead of me in the damp morning mist, their red capes flapping in the wind and their horse-hair helms glittering in the low light.

With only a small contingent, I had initially wondered why the Bishop had chosen only a handful of men to accompany him. Though I did not know why he was journeying all the way to Britain, it seemed odd for a man so full of his own self-importance that he did not commission an army at the least.

When we had arrived on the shores of Britain, I remembered how surprised I was to see the wildness of it all. How dangerous every tree and hill seemed to be in comparison to what I remembered. Huge forests blanketed the country and the iconic rolling green hills seemed nonexistent.

It was very different from the time I had been there, and after a quick pass through Londinium, I realized that the Britain I knew did not exist. I recognized nothing.

For the last two weeks alone, we had been surrounded by nothing but wilds and fog. It was unsettling for the most part, but I also somewhat welcomed the peace. Having spent the majority of my time in the filthy and tight confines of Rome, the cool mud against my legs and the fresh breeze on my face seemed almost welcome.

We spent most of the morning drudging through the mud north, the soldiers often complaining of the never-ending fog and mist that seemed to cling to everything. The forest nearby seemed to glitter with the near frozen rain, and if I had not been so cold, I might have thought it was pretty.

My own dress and cloak were soaked through before noon, and it took a lot more effort than I would have liked to prevent my teeth from chattering.

With nothing but a simple blue cotton gown and brown cloak that I had worn the night I had escaped the villa in Rome, the cool English mist easily penetrated the thin cloth. It must have been only early autumn at this point, yet I was nearly frozen through.

Forcing each step forward, I nearly collapsed for the third time in the mud when the wagon lurched. A call went out and suddenly the entire convoy ground to a halt. Jerking to a stop, I let out a silent thanks to whoever had called a halt to the march when suddenly I heard a low shout.

A solider barked quickly to the troops at the front of the convoy and I could hear several others call out in response.

What is going on? I thought, stepping out from behind the wagon to get a better view. Peering around the wagon, a sudden eruption of howls sounded from the treeline.

As if out of thin air, hundreds of men began pouring out of the woods. Like something out of a nightmare, screams and howls filled the air as a horde of blue men barreled down the embankment.

For a moment, I stood in shocked silence until I realized in horror that the horde was making a beeline for our convoy.

We had been ambushed.

Several Romans began screaming out orders, but I could see their own eyes widen at the men thundering towards us. Arrows whizzed above us and suddenly I fell back as I felt one fly past my head. A loud 'thunk' sounded as the arrow imbedded itself into the wagon mere inches from my fast.

Stumbling, I landed hard into the mud and let out a small scream.

Clad in nothing but furs and rough cloth, the wild men surged from the treeline towards the Roman contingent. Their hair was matted and braided, and I could make out faint blue lines across their chests and faces. Armed with axes and shorts, I felt my stomach turn to ice as they let out a unified roar.

The Romans, after floundering for a moment in shock, suddenly moved into action. Kicking their mounts forward, I could hear the commander, Quintus Pompeius Lucretius, urge his men.

"Hold the line!" He ordered, charging his mount closer to the front of the convoy. "Protect the Bishop!"

The Romans circled the Bishop's wagon, leaving myself and the Roman in charge of the provisions wagon unguarded at the rear. The Roman who sat on the wagon realized as quickly as I did that we were now sitting ducks. Jumping to his feet, he made a move to dive off the wagon when he suddenly flew backwards.

Staring at me with wide eyes, I tried not to gag as the arrow in his chest bobbed. Gasping, the Roman collapsed. Leaving no one else between me and the charging wild men.

I forced myself back up onto my feet and dove for the rope binding me to the wagon.

I pulled at my rope desperately, my cold fingers clumsy as I attempted to pull the rope free from the knot. Another arrow whizzed by and stuck into the wood next to my hand, jarring me. Stumbling again, I crouched as low as I could behind the wagon as I continued to tug at the rope.

Men now ran in all directions and I could hear the metal clang of swords as the Romans continued to shout.

Breathing heavily, I had only a second of warning when a man, shirtless and covered in blue swirls, grabbed my neck.

I screamed, the noise so loud the man seemed to pause for a moment. I attempted to twist out of his hold and with a surprised sound, the man let go.

I wasted no time and spun around, facing him. My eyes involuntarily widened as the man raised a sword. With a yell, he brought the blade down.

I dove to the side at the last moment, feeling the sword rush by me and strike the rope that bound me.

With a snap, the rope gave way and I landed on my stomach in the mud. While my hands were still bound, I was no longer connected to the wagon. Wiggling so I was no longer on my front, I looked up from the ground at the man as he rose his sword again.

I raised my bound hands in defense, trying to show I was no threat. "Please…" I begged in English, my voice no more than a whisper. "Please, don't kill me…"

The man seemed unperturbed and instead said something to me in a guttural language I did not know. Seeing my confusion, he merely grimaced and readied his blade.

I tried to plead again when a sword suddenly burst through the man's stomach. Blood sprayed across my face and I tried not to vomit as the warm coppery scent filled my nose. Gasping in shock, the man staggered backwards, dropping his sword as a Roman solider rushed by.

Staring at the wild man's limp body in shock, I realized that I was still sitting in the mud alive. A small voice in my head screamed at me to move and I found my arms pushing myself up out of instinct.

Clambering to my feet, I took in the sight around me. Wild men and Romans fought all around me, their screams and the sounds of swords filling the air. Yet I could hear in the distance the thundering of hooves and saw a group flying towards the scene at breakneck speed. I could not tell who they were with however my main priority was currently my own safety.

I stood completely exposed at the rear and with my hands still bound, could do nothing to defend myself.

My eyes flitted around me desperately before landing on the Bishop's wagon several paces ahead. The main cluster of Roman guards fought fiercely around it, and I realized that the safest place was next to the Bishop.

With a burst of speed, I took off. Dodging and weaving through the throng of fighting men, I urged my feet to move faster. Men, both the Romans and the barbarians, dropped around me. Swords and shields clattered to both sides but I kept my eyes focused on the wagon.

Skirting around a horse, I pushed myself as hard as I could before diving under the carriage. My arms took the brunt of the fall and I grunted at the impact, the mud squelching around me.

A scream caused me to roll around, readying myself for a fight. However instead I found myself face to face with Horton, his eyes wild with fear as he cowered in the mud under the carriage. He looked back me in horror but his eyes were glazed, not quite seeing me.

He closed his eyes and let out a loud whimper.

A yell tore both of our attentions back to the chaos in front of us and I curled myself as tightly as possible underneath the Bishop's wagon.

Horton continued to whimper loudly beside me before he began to pray. The Latin chant only heightened my fear and I grit my teeth, my entire body shaking. My breathing came fast and hard, and no matter where I looked, I was faced with the reality of blood and gore.

The men outside continue to drop. Roman capes fluttered in the wind against the dark furs of our enemy, all tinged with blood and mud.

I could not tell who was winning, if there even was a winner to begin with, but I refused to close my eyes. I knew that the moment I closed my eyes, was the moment I risked dying. And despite my own grim acceptance at the Roman punishments that awaited me, a small part of me did not want to die in the rain and mud.

Staring back down at my bound hands, I began to wiggle my hands from the restrictive rope. If I was going to die, I wanted to at least have my hands free. I looked back over at Horton.

Though his eyes remained closed, I wondered if he would assist me. Yet before I could ask, I felt a hand on my leg.

I screamed as I felt my leg get pulled from behind me. As if weighing nothing, I was yanked from under the carriage back out into the fray.

Another wild man with an odd tattoo on his face dragged me out from the safety of the wagon and eyed me curiously. Grunting something I didn't understand, he suddenly pinned me to the ground with his foot.

Nearly twice my size, I gasped at the pressure as he slowly began putting his full weight behind his foot. He looked down at me curiously and asked something, his voice tinged with sarcasm. I grunted in protest and struggled under his weight, earning only a small laugh in response.

Clawing at his boot with my hands, I could do little but choke as it became harder to breath.

The man said something again and tightly gripped a dripping axe. I could see the faint red droplets still staining the metal.

With a desperate cry, I kicked out with my feet and hit him square in the groin.

He stumbled back, surprised at my attack and fell, groaning loudly. I looked around me wildly for some sort of weapon and spotted the body of Roman twisted beside me, an arrow sprouting from his eye.

However despite the sight, I was running on full adrenaline now. Somewhere in my mind, the fight or flight instincts were on overdrive and I immediately zeroed in on the knife still gripped in the dead Roman's hand.

Scrambling over on my hands and knees, I clambered over the dead man's body and pulled the knife out of his hands.

I could hear my attacker standing back up behind me and spun around, gripping the knife in front of me.

His eyes were murderous but he also seemed amused at the minimal threat I posed. Almost upon me, he smiled threateningly, and a part of my mind clued in that this was the second time in a few minutes I had watched a man ready my own death.

Keeping my eyes on the man, I refused to look away despite my shaking. However the man flicked his gaze over me and let out a low snarl. Lowering the axe just a fraction, he stepped out to the side and seemed to ready himself for something else.

Completely ignoring me, I turned unwittingly to see what had drawn his attention when a object whooshed past me.

A spear suddenly flew by, and I blinked as my would-be attacker was thrown nearly a foot back at the force of the thrown. A grey horse and rider thundered past, and I had to jump to the side to avoid the crushing hooves.

Wheeling around, my mounted savior yelled something to his companions before moving back towards the wagon. It the mist I could make out his long golden hair that was nearly as wild as the man he had saved me from. He was no Roman, and he wore a leather jerkin and armor that seemed more familiar than the buckskins of the wild men.

Was he with the Romans? Or is he a part of a different tribe than those that attacked us?

Quickly remembering myself, I turned away from the new man and flipped the knife in my hands. I moved my bound hands up and down as quickly as I dared against the sharp edge. After what felt like minutes, the rope finally gave way.

With a shrill but happy cry, I untangled my hands and threw the rope to the side.

Taking a moment to reassess my surroundings, I noticed that the golden man with the axes had inched slowly on his horse towards the Bishop's wagon. He moved to open the door flap and peer inside when his eyes caught mine, widening ever so slightly in surprise at where I still stood semi-crouched in the mud.

He never knew I was here, I realized, my eyes widening in realization. Staring at me from his horse, the golden-haired man seemed to hesitate. His grey mount snorted wildly and danced upon his hooves, eyeing me with equal wariness.

I flinched back from the hooves and took a step backwards, my left hand still gripping the knife.

The man seemed to snap out of whatever thoughts he was having at my sudden motion and cast a curious look over me for only a second. Moving his horse backwards, he moved to peer back into the wagon when out of the corner of my eye I caught the flicker of metal. Turning my head, I saw another wild man racing towards myself and the blonde man.

For a split second, I made a move to flee when I noticed that the my would-be savior had not realized the threat. He had no idea.

Before I could really think, I shouted as loudly as I could in Latin to get the mounted man's attention.

"Look out!"

The golden-hair man whipped his head around to look at me before realizing the threat. Twisting his body at the last second on top of his horse, he managed to dodge the blow aimed at his side.

However the wild man launched himself onto the horse and the other man could do little but grunt as he tried to protect himself. Wrestling for a moment, both men toppled to the ground in a mess of hair and leather.

The grey horse whinnied wildly and shied away, once more nearly trampling me. I staggered backwards away from the horse and stared at the wrestling men. They rolled through the mud in a tangle of grunts and curses, but I could see the flash of metal as each tried to seize their weapons.

Not knowing what to do, my eyes flickered back to the Bishop's carriage. I did no favors merely standing in the middle of a battlefield. Men still poured from the treeline, and I did not want to risk a third encounter.

My blonde hero was soon forgotten; I skidded back under the wagon in what seemed the only safe spot in the entire area. Horton still quivered in the same spot as before and did not even look up when I inched closer.

My eyes flicked over the chaos before us. The blonde man had somehow gotten back onto his feet in the time it took me to get back into hiding.

He stood at the ready, his stature imposing. He snarled as he gripped two axes at his side, circling the wild man who had tackled him early. The wild man equally glared back and moved to attack yet with a grunt, he collapsed when an errant arrow struck him in the chest.

Unbothered, the blonde man wheeled around and charged the next man instead. Easily disarming the enemy, the blonde man threw the man dressed in furs down in front of the wagon and thrust his axe into him. I flinched at the spray of blood and remembered the feeling of the blood splattering my own face.

In all of the 721 days I had been here, never had I seen anything that could compare to the complete madness around me.

Men screamed and yelled while horses stampeded by. The clash of metal against metal drowned out the low groans of those who had been struck down while the constant scent of blood hung in the air.

The Romans were being massacred, that was clear to me now. I could make out the familiar red cloaks littering the expanse before me and realized that the wild men were easily slaughtering them by sheer numbers alone. There had to be at least 10 wild men to every Roman solider, and more seemed to keep appearing.

A dozen more blue and green tinged men raced around the wagon, whooping loudly as they pushed back the weakening Roman cavalry. The remaining Romans rounded on the approaching horde but looked desperate, their armor bloodier and muddier than ever before.

However while the wild men continued to push back the Romans, their eyes continued to flicker back over their shoulders. A few of the blue men yelled something to their comrades and a section of their force broke off from the push.

With a war cry, several of the wild men changed their tactics and rushed in the opposite direction. Racing away from the wagon, my eyes followed the wild men before I saw their targets.

There were about six or seven men who fought in mud. They were no Romans, but I could see they wore similar armor to that of the blonde man with the axes. Despite their small number, nearly a dozen bodies lay in their wake.

They stood arm in arm, their weapons flashing as they tore through the line of wild men.

They fought with a ferocity that I had never seen before and I could see the practiced ease in their movements. A few of these strange men remained mounted on their horses. Racing around the chaos, they finished off any of the wild men who lingered too far from their companions who fought in the mud.

Unruly but disciplined, these men moved through the throngs of wild men as if nothing. Slowly but surely, I could suddenly see that these men were turning the tide in the favour of the Romans. Wild men dropped around them, and those that continued to push the Romans began to realize the change in the battle.

As I watched the carnage unfold before me, I did my best to ignore the whimpering of Horton beside me. My own hands shook violently yet I could not seem to make a sound. While Horton seemed unable to stay quiet, I could not seem to find my voice.

I felt numb, and a logically part of me recognized that I was going into shock.

Time seemed to inch on as slowly the wild men began to fall. The Romans, seeing that they were in fact now winning, suddenly began to call out orders to push the wild men back towards the trees.

Only a few stragglers remained. The men in the odd leather armor moved briskly through the remaining wild men with little ceremony, staring down at their bodies with nothing more than cold detachment.

I found my eyes trailing the blonde man from earlier, who despite being bloodier and more disheveled than before, was still alive. His blonde hair framed his face like a mane, making him appear almost lion-like while he eyed the last of the wild men still standing. With one last yell, the blonde man easily dispatched the tattooed man with quick yet deadly thrust of his axe. He did not even blink as the man choked his last breath.

He made it look so easy. I felt my hands shake more.

As the dead man fell, the blonde let out a deep sigh, eyeing the dead around him methodically as if to ensure there was no one else.

Another man with deadly set of daggers and a shaved head let out a loud war cry in victory. With his face splattered with blood, he glared out at the forest in what could only be a challenge. Any of those wild men that remained raced back towards the treeline, so the bald man merely grunted in grim satisfaction.

Satisfied with the lack of a response to his apparent challenge, the bald man turned around and made his way towards the wagon. The blonde man also moved to join him. Realizing their destination, I did what I could to ensure I was as far under the wagon as possible. Tucking my knees into my chest, I prayed that they would not notice me.

Horton continued to pray beside me, and I wanted desperately to tell him to stay quiet. If the strange men noticed, they did not care.

From where I lay, I could see the two men peer into the carriage and give each other a meaningful look. They were obviously not Romans, now that I had a closer look, and numbly wondered who they were.

I had lived and served enough Romans to recognize their style of dress and appearance, even how they held themselves. So who these men were I was unsure.

Instead of the thin metal armor and chest plates the Romans wore, these men were each dressed in dark leather armor. Littered in tears and what looked like makeshift fixes, their armor looked much more worn, as if they had only had a few minutes between battles to stitch up their clothes.

Despite their rather worn appearance, the pair held themselves with a casual confidence. It seemed decidedly more deadly than the strict posture the Roman soldiers were drilled into holding.

Dirty, bloody, and wholly unfamiliar, I did not know what to think of these men.

Horton suddenly began to pray louder, and I glared at him. I muttered lowly at him to keep quiet but with the growing silence around us seemed to only heighten his anxiety. Ignoring me, Horton continued to pray.

The blonde man let out an angry huff and turned from the wagon. He threw one of his axes to the ground and crouched down, his face partially obscured by his long-tangled hair.

Horton's loud praying finally seemed to catch the attention of the two warriors and the blonde glanced up from his crouched position, his expression obscured but his annoyance evident.

"Save your prayers, boy…" he said, his Latin surprisingly clear. His voice was deep and even, "Your god doesn't live here."

The man's gaze flickered and rested on me beside the cowering man, and I could see recognition flicker across his face. I met his gaze with my own and moved further back under the wagon. While he had inadvertently saved me earlier, I had also seen the way in which he had easily dispatched the wild men. I had no idea if he was friend or foe and stood little chance if it was the latter.

I would not risk it.

The blonde man cocked his head to the side at my movement and regarded me coolly. Refusing to look away from his stony gaze, I met his with my own and hoped I did not look as afraid as I felt.

After a moment, he broke his gaze and began wiping the blood off his weapons on the grass, the action casual. I knew that his attentions were still on me despite the innocuous movements and kept my guard up, my hand still holding the knife from earlier.

Finally, the blonde man sheathed his axes on his back and waddled closer to where I was, still crouched low. I wondered if this was to appear less threatening, like an adult speaking with a child.

I regarded him warily.

Holding out a bloody hand, he beckoned me gently from underneath the wagon.

"You can come out now… The danger's gone."

"How do I know that…" I whispered, still refusing to budge. My voice came out softer than I intended. "Who are you?"

Holding the knife out in front of me, I flicked my gaze between him and the other men who were beginning to gather. Seeing the Roman helms, I didn't know whether I was glad or sad to see my captors had survived.

I heard a low chuckle and my gaze once more flicked back to the man crouched in front of me. I glanced up and saw a ghost of a smile appear on his lips, his blue eyes amused.

"You don't. But you've got to come out from there sometime." He reasoned, ignoring my second question. Turning his gaze slightly to my right, he sighed heavily. "You too, monk."

I eyed the man warily but begrudgingly knew he was right. I was either going to be pulled out from under the wagon, or could come out myself. Having already been dragged from beneath the wagon before, I was not looking to have it repeated.

My choices were rather limited.

Reluctantly, and stiffly as my body's adrenaline was now wearing off, I crawled from under the wagon. With a small groan at the pressure on my chest (no doubt from the wild man's boot), I forced myself up into a standing position and held my knife closely.

Eyeing the blonde man warily, I kept my back to the wagon.

The blonde man moved so that he was further away and I appreciated the distance. His gazed lingered on the knife in my hand before moving over me, scanning quickly. I refused to look down at myself but knew what he probably saw.

Not a threat, but instead a very underfed, muddy, bloody, and most likely bruised woman in a thin dress.

All the yelling and cries had stopped now, and the remaining Romans were gathered in front of the wagon where I stood. Horton had also clambered out from beneath the wagon and stood awkwardly to the side, his body still quivering.

I scanned the faces of the remaining Romans and felt my heart stutter as I took in Bishop Germanus still atop his horse. A part of me almost wished he had died but I pushed back the thought. I knew better than to hope for any lucky breaks.

As if sensing my gaze, the Bishop turned his head to look at me. I immediately ducked my head, cursing silently.

Horton and I waiting by the wagon while the rest of the men began to speak. The blonde and the bald man both watched us steadily, and I did my best not to fidget. Horton seemed unable to stop moving under the gaze of the two men and moved closer to me, much to my amusement and dismay.

Suddenly, both men seemed to stand up straighter as another man, a Roman I had never seen before, billowed past me and to the wagon doorway.

"Bors," The unfamiliar Roman demanded, his eyes scanning the bald man with the daggers. The bald man with the daggers, Bors, lifted the curtain.

"What a bloody mess…" he grumbled; the sarcasm was obvious in his deep voice. He held a bit of an accent, like that of the blonde man, which I did not recognize.

The Roman gave a quick glance into the wagon but seemed pensive. After a moment, he spoke quietly. "That is not the Bishop…"

He turned and gave the blonde man a meaningful look before his sharp dark blue eyes settled on myself and Horton.

He gave Horton a quick look but I notice that his gaze lingered on me, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly at the knife in my hand and my muddy appearance.

"God help us…" Horton said beside me, drawing my attention away from the Roman. Staring down at a body of a wild man laying at our feet, Horton gasped slightly. "What are they?"

I looked at the mangled corpses of the wild men around us and felt my stomach clench. The smell was already starting to make me sick but I did not want any more unneeded attention on me. Forcing myself to hold back, I continued to stand as straight as I could while taking small, measured breaths.

"Real demons that eat Christians alive," Bors sneered in response, eyeing Horton. "You aren't a real Christian are you?"

He jabbed his finger at Horton who whimpered futilely, and I took a slight step away. Holding my knife tighter in front of me, I backed away from Bors.

I suddenly gasped as my wrist was seized. With a pained yelp, I dropped the knife and was twisted around. Another man, handsome with dark curly hair and a neat beard, released my wrist immediately and regarded me coolly as he kicked the knife away.

Staring at the new man, I stumbled backwards and bumped back into Horton who was now praying alongside a mocking Bors.

The new man smirked slightly in response and I inadvertently glared, hating the way he seemed to be amused at my fear. I spotted my knife a few feet away and tried to gauge the distance. As if reading my thoughts, the dark-haired man inclined his head as if in challenge.

"You can try," he said, his lips pulled into a mocking grin. "But I warn you now, it is pointless."

I knew he was right.

I remained where I was, glaring heavily at the ground. The dark-haired man smirked in victory at my acceptance before he quickly swung himself into the saddle of his horse. Keeping his gaze steadily on me for a moment as if to ensure I would not try to run for the knife, he turned to look back at the Roman man he and the other strange men seemed to follow.

The Roman leader moved away from me and approached the Romans, his demeanor calm and steady. His men, the wild bunch around me, unsheathed their swords and followed after their leader.

The Bishop's men quickly unsheathed their weapons in response and flanked their leader.

The Roman looked up at the Bishop before he held up a hand to his men at his back.

"Stand down," he stated smoothly, easing the tense air. The Romans seemed appeased and settled back down, though his actual men continued to stand in a way that made me wonder if they were expecting a fight.

I shot a quick look at the dark-haired man who had grabbed my wrist and noted the way he watched the Romans. Unsure what was going on, I remained as still as possible whilst noting potential escape routes. If this all went south again, I knew I could not cower under the wagon again.

The tall Roman calmly gazed up at the Bishop and studied him.

"Arthur. Arthur Castus," The Bishop greeted, causing me to frown.

The Bishop knows this man? I thought, my gaze flicking over the new Roman. Tall and no older than 35, Arthur stood a stark contrast against the Bishop.

"Bishop Germanus. Welcome to Britain," Arthur said calmly, a smile playing at his lips. My frown deepened as I realized that whoever Arthur was, he did not only know the Bishop, but was friendly with him. "I see your military skills are still of use to you. Your device worked."

The Bishop grinned in response and shrugged. "Ancient tricks… of an ancient dog."

I moved out of the way as a few Roman foot soldiers gathered the body from the wagon and found myself closer to Arthur's soldiers. Bors and the blonde man studied me with a mix of curiosity and what I thought was pity, but remained where they were. Another man, much younger in appearance than the others, rode up with two horses.

Each grasping the reins of their horses, Bors and the blonde man swung up into their saddles.

I shuffled back away from them and let out a silent huff. Stuck between a rock and a hard place.

Trying to remain between the Roman soldiers and the new warriors, I actively avoided looking at anyone. Defaulting into the posture I had adopted for two years, I kept my back straight but my head down. The perfect portrait of a docile slave.

Though I kept my head down, I focused as much as I could to follow the conversation between Arthur and the Bishop.

"And these are the great Sarmatian Knights we have heard so much about in Rome…" the Bishop continued, gazing at the bloody men flanking Arthur. They had all gotten back into their saddles and shifted on their horses uncomfortably at the attention.

I did not recognize a few of the words however based on the flicker of interest in Bishop's eye, I assumed that these men were famous in some way. I took in from the corner of my eye the men on horseback and tried to discern who they were. Were these the barbarians the Roman soldiers had spoken of? The ones who roamed the fort like wild dogs?

The Bishop gave one last look at the mounted men before he slid off his horse, moving to walk with Arthur.

He and Arthur continued to speak but I did not catch all of it, many of the words meaningless to me. I wished that I had a better grasp of Latin when a blonde man muttered something in response to whatever the Bishop had said. The younger man, with a tuft of wild dark curls, bit out something darkly which caused the Bishop to still.

I blinked at the venom behind it.

Though I could tell that the topic was about the wild men, I was surprised at the disregard they had for the Bishop. No Roman solider would ever speak to him in such a tone. Or show any of their true emotion to someone who was clearly above them.

It was an interesting development but I did not know what this would mean for me.

Turning my attention away from the Bishop who continued to converse with the mounted men, I was able to subtly study the group.

There were six men in total. One with dark shaggy hair rode off quickly after a quick word with Arthur so I could not see much of him.

There was the blonde man and Bors, along with the young petulant knight with dark curls who stared at the scene with an angry demeanor. A massive man, who I had to guess was over 6ft, towered over the rest while sitting atop of his horse. He had a shaved head with scars crisscrossing his stern face. His eyes flicked over to me, and I adverted my gaze again. It only left the handsome dark-haired knight from earlier who had seized my knife.

He sat slightly away from the other knights and stared at Arthur in open annoyance, adjusting a pair of swords on his back.

I was taking in the dark-haired knight when I latently realized that Quintus was quickly approaching. Moving swiftly to my side, the Roman grasp my arm tightly and tugged me away from the wagon. Hissing in surprise, I resisted the urge to twist out of his grasp as he began tying my hands together once more.

Remaining stock-still, I forced myself to keep my head down as the thick rope was once again secured against my skin.

I had expected this to happen, at least eventually. I was technically a prisoner of sorts so I knew that it was only a matter of time before they remembered as well.

I merely gritted my teeth as my battered hands and wrists were once more bound before me. Any resistance would only make matters worse.

Quintus held me tight once I was bound and moved me forward quickly, causing me to stumble in the mud. Horton, to his credit, looked slightly aghast at my treatment.

"Bishop Germanus, what should I do with the girl?" Quintus called. "She's still alive. Shall I tie her to the wagon?" He jostled me in his grip and I winced as he squeezed my upper arm harshly.

The Bishop's eyes slid to me for a moment and he opened his mouth to respond when I heard a slight shuffling noise to my right. Quintus' grip lessened and I heard more than saw him hiss in surprise.

I looked up from the ground and was surprised to find a horse suddenly very close.

The largest man with close cropped hair, had pushed his black horse forward so that Quintus and I were now pinned between the animal and the wagon. His mount snorted fiercely and stomped its foot, urging Quintus to take another hesitant step backwards.

With a serious expression, the man regarded Quintus.

"Let go of the girl," the man said, his deep voice deceptively calm. My eyes widened at the request.

Was he helping me?

Looking back over the horse at the Bishop, Quintus spluttered indignantly.

"She is our prisoner. What right do you have in demanding such a thing?"

Arthur and the Bishop both took in the scene, Arthur's veiled expression no more clear than the stony face of the Bishop.

Arthur stepped forward and levelled a calm look at Quintus, though I could see a slight twitch of pity as he cast a look over my form. This caused my heart to thump in hope. Perhaps these men would not be so cruel in their punishment of me, as I had first feared.

Maybe I would be spared from whatever the Bishop had in store.

"She poses you no threat, hands bound or not," Arthur answered. Taking in the way Quintus tensed, Arthur smoothly gestured to the men around him. "We will need to travel quickly to the fort in case the Woads decide to return. She would be a hindrance if bound behind the wagon."

Quintus stiffened at the demand and looked to the Bishop. The Bishop watched on with what could only be bored annoyance before he shrugged, waving his hand at Quintus.

"Do as he says, Quintus. She will be dealt with accordingly at the fort."

With great reluctance, Quintus released his grip on my arm. I could feel the blood beginning to move again and let out a small breath of relief. Quintus made no show of noticing and grimaced as he cut off my new bindings. With a quick hand, the rope once more fell off of my wrists.

My wrists at this point were smarting at the abuse and I rubbed at the raw skin, inching away from Quintus towards the large man on the black horse. I had a feeling that he would at least be somewhat kind and I knew I could not say the same for Quintus.

Casting a small glance up at the mounted knight, I nodded, unsure what else to do. It had been a long time since someone had acted on my behalf and the action felt unfamiliar.

The large man seemed to understand and nodded in return, his menacing face only softening slightly.

Arthur stared back at the Bishop before turning his sharp eyes back on me. His green eyes were like two shards of glass and I stiffened under the gaze. He surveyed my entire form in a second and based on the slight frown, he did not like what he saw.

He seemed to hesitate for a moment before he thought better of whatever was filling his mind, his gaze instead shifting to the treeline.

Motioning to the wagon, Arthur kept his voice steady but urgent as he turned back to the Bishop. "Please do not worry, Bishop. We will protect you."

The Bishop smirked in response. "Oh, I have no doubt Commander. No doubt." Clambering into the wagon, Horton attempted to follow the Bishop quickly as he skirted past the mounted men.

"Dozens don't worry me nearly so much as thousands," Horton muttered as he hurried up the steps. The flap shut in front of him and he staggered back.

"Thousands?" The handsome knight asked, his tone worried. Horton merely ducked his head but I saw the look that was exchanged between the dark-haired man and Arthur who had mounted his white horse.

Arthur's gaze once more flicked back to the trees and I inadvertently followed his gaze. The mist continued to obscure most of the forest, but I couldn't help but get the impression we were being watched. I shivered slightly and wrapped my arms around myself.

"Come," A voice said above me, and I glanced up at the large man who had a hand extended. I stared at his hand for a moment in confusion before the blonde man chuckled. "He means for you to ride with him. It's that or you run behind us."

Turning my attention to the blonde man, I could see him taking stock of the mud covering me. I had lost my cloak somewhere in the chaos so I merely wore the thin slip of a dress. Once blue, the dress was coated in a dark thick layer of mud that clung tightly to my figure. I knew my hair was also coated in the same mud and wondered how ghastly I must appear to them.

Looking back to the tall man on the horse, I hesitated. Turning to gaze at Horton, I could see he was climbing back into the provisions wagon with the remaining injured Romans and hedged my choices.

Not relishing the idea of having to walk again or join the Romans, I reluctantly grasped the man's hand.